


Many Meetings

by JRA3933



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark, Fluff, Kid Fic, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:43:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 54,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JRA3933/pseuds/JRA3933
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots, to keep the creative juices flowing. Will range from dark to fluffy, and everything in between.





	1. The Scars We Conceal

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned: #1 has non-graphic description of sexual violence. Kicking this thing off a bit dark.

Sandor looked blurry around the edges, misty through her veil of tears. His grip on her shoulder was firm, but not hard. Sansa could pull away, if she really wanted.

 

“Sansa.”

 

He wasn’t as angry as he’d been earlier. The force of his rage had shaken her, deep, although she’d known it hadn’t been directed at her. Not really. He’d been looking at her though, at the exposed skin at her breast.

 

The rasp of his scruff had felt so _good_ against her throat, and she’d been leaning into it, fingers twined in the dark length of his hair. Their dinner had gone well, just like the one before, and the one before that. But this last had ended differently, with laughter and lemons. He’d said he had a gift for her, and she’d followed him inside the apartment willingly enough. The little sticky lemon cakes were a trifle harder than they should’ve been. But he’d made them, and that made them taste all the better.

 

There'd been giggles from Sansa, and a rather smug look from Sandor as he’d pulled her onto his lap at the table to eat them. The little cakes had been left abandoned after a time, as Sansa chose to lean backwards, back into his attentions at her throat. Then, his hands had risen to caress her, and she’d bucked into that too, rather enjoying the feel of his interest rising under her thighs.

 

He had been murmuring in her ear as his hands followed the deep vee of her neckline, to the buttons of her blouse. She had nodded absently along, simply wanting more contact. It had felt so good, so _right._

 

One button had come undone. Then another.

 

And she’d remembered, too late. Sansa had sat up abruptly, jerking the blouse closed. But he’d seen, she’d seen it in the frozen look in his eyes as he stared down at her, at the flesh she’d belatedly covered.

 

Then, the ice in his eyes had ignited, his mouth had twisted, and Sansa had run. The bathroom had swum before her eyes, and the ground seemed to sway beneath her feet as she slammed the door shut behind her. She’d slumped to the ground behind it, huddled and shaking for a long time.

 

But she was out now. And Sandor seemed determined to keep her there.

 

He was looking at her, waiting. The flames in his eyes had died to embers, but they were still there.

 

Sansa swallowed, throat feeling dry despite all the water she’d gulped from the tap in the bathroom. “I’ve told you about- about my ex?”

 

She wouldn’t say his name, not aloud. She woke up screaming it far too often for that. She found she couldn’t quite look Sandor in the eye, choosing instead to look downward at her own lap. She caught up the bright hem of her skirt, working it between thumb and forefinger.

 

She nearly jolted at the deep sound of his voice, though she’d asked the question.

 

“Not enough, seemingly.” His hand, so large on her shoulder, slid down her arm and took her own, stopping her fidgeting. “Tell me he’s put away.”

 

She risked a glance upwards as she shook her head. “I just have a restraining order.”

 

She could tell that he’d expected that, as well he might. Sansa had spoken little of Joffrey to anyone, with the exception of her therapist, but what little she had said was to explain her sudden move to the city. _He_ still lived in Lannisport. Although she feared that little things like restraining orders or uprooting from one city to another wouldn’t keep him away, not if he really wanted to come. Perhaps that had been part of what had attracted Sansa to Sandor initially- he was the most intimidating man she’d even seen, certainly large enough to keep Joffrey at bay if need be.

 

But whatever had brought her here, she had stayed because of the man behind the steely eyes. He made her feel safe. Sansa looked at him, taking in the ravaged skin on one half of his face. Besides. If anyone would understand, it would be him.

 

Sansa rose to her feet, heart pounding against her ribs. Sandor remained where he was, kneeling on the floor in front of her chair. Perhaps he didn’t want to loom. Her hands rose the the buttons between her breasts.

 

Sandor moved then, catching her wrist in his hand. “I didn’t mean-”

 

“Just let me. Please.”

 

He sat back, eyes on her face. He only lowered them when Sansa had cast off the wine colored blouse, letting it flutter to the floor. Her face felt too hot, the rest of her too cold. The fingers working to unclasp her bra were shaking only a little, and she was proud of that somehow. It was a heavy white cotton thing, one she hadn’t expected to be revealing tonight. Not that she ever would have expected this.

 

Unclasped, it hung loosely over her breasts for a moment. Taking a breath, Sansa let the straps slide off her arms. There was a long silence as Sandor stared at her bare torso and Sansa fought not to cover herself.

 

She was triumphant for only a short time before her hands came up to cup over her breasts, flesh bunching between her fingers. She could feel the roughness against her palms. From his vantage, Sandor would have been able to see them well, pink as they were against the near whiteness of her skin.

 

Tears blurred her vision again, but she wouldn’t let them fall.

 

His hand caught her chin, raising it, forcing her to meet his eyes. She flinched at what she saw there.

 

“Tell me.”

 

Then his hand jerked back, and he glanced at the floor under him. When he looked back up, his eyes were blank, not quite as penetrating. “If you want, I mean.”

 

It was almost enough to make her smile. Sansa could always see the moments when he thought of Elder Brother. It was doing him good to be seeing more of the man, although he’d admitted to her earlier that he’d only started attending regularly because he’d seen Sansa at group. Although she always told Elder Brother everything in their sessions, she hadn’t felt able to speak up to a group yet. He’d told her it would come, when she was ready. Sansa thought she might never be ready for that. But if nothing else, the weekly hour of sitting and listening had brought her Sandor.

 

Did she want to talk now? She must, or she never would’ve removed the shirt, revealing her scars so intimately.

 

Sandor passed her the shirt back now, and she was grateful when he turned his back for her to put it on. Suitably covered, arms crossed tightly over her chest, she told him.

 

Joffrey had introduced the knife into their bedplay after Sansa had moved into his apartment. Sansa had been dubious from the start, but he’d promised he wouldn't hurt her, wouldn’t cut her. She’d felt silly at the thought. The first time it had been the knife which had satisfied him, his eager green eyes following the path the tip of the blade made, from the hollow at the base of her throat to her breasts to her navel.

 

Afterwards, Sansa had thought that it would be over with. Curiosity satisfied. She’d been wrong, of course. The next time, it hadn’t been the knife he’d looked at most of the time. He’d looked her straight in the eye as he pressed the edge to her flesh, though he still hadn’t pierced the skin.

 

“I don’t think it was the knife that turned him on anymore. It was me. It scared me, and he knew it. He liked it. He wanted to look me in the eyes, and see that. _See_ what he was doing to me.”

 

The knives had gotten sharper, and Joffrey bolder. He had raised lines at first, red against the thin skin of her breasts, watching her shaking. Then, the cuts had gotten deeper, and blood had flowed. To her utter shame, Sansa had never put a stop to it. Had simply shaken and whimpered, and tried not to move for fear of injury. He never cut her where it would be seen over her clothes. Along her hips, across her torso, and on the soft undersides of her breasts most of all. He knew that was what terrified her the most.

 

“It was the crying he liked- what got him off. So I thought if I didn’t do that, he’d get bored.”

 

He hadn’t. Her silence had only spurred Joffrey on to greater lengths, until he pushed too far. The cut had been deep, and the bleeding hadn’t stopped. Joffrey had taken her to the hospital, as though to prove he could reveal his handiwork with impunity.

 

After a thorough examination, and proper treatment and bandaging, the kind-faced nurse had asked Sansa, in front of Joffrey no less, if she wanted to call security. Joffrey had been refusing to leave, hand bruisingly tight on her upper arm. He’d jerked Sansa to her feet at the nurse’s words, telling her they’d be leaving now. But though the nurse was plump, though her hair and eyes were brown, she’d reminded Sansa of Mother. It had been enough for a tiny nod. Joffrey had been incensed of course, but security had handled him. And the kindly nurse had let Sansa sob into her shoulder until the police had arrived. It still bothered her that she’d never gotten the woman’s name.

 

“Why wasn’t he arrested?” Sandor’s voice was level. He’d kept his silence through her story, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

 

Sansa shrugged, arms still crossed tightly over herself. “He was. But they released him, because I didn’t want to press charges. What he did at the hospital was enough for the restraining order. That was all I wanted.” A shudder ran through her at the thought of telling some strangers what had happened. Of admitting, for the whole world to hear, that she’d been too weak to stop it on her own.

 

“I’m sorry.” This wasn't how she'd wanted tonight to go.

 

Sandor sat back on his heels. “Don’t be. _You_ didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“I just mean- I didn’t mean to tell you like this. I was having a really good night.” She smiled a little shakily at him. “I got distracted, and I guess I forgot for a minute.”

 

Elder Brother would say that was a good thing, that she was able to forget. If only for a moment.

 

Sandor watched her for a moment, before reaching over to snag the half-eaten lemoncake from before, offering it to her. Sansa hadn’t thought she really wanted it, but once she began nibbling, it went down quickly, until she was left with only crumbs. She looked down at her sticky hands, feeling a bit stronger with it in her belly.

 

“Thank you. For telling me.” His voice was gruff in the quiet kitchen.

 

Sansa nodded. “Can I stay here, tonight?”

 

It had come out too quickly, unthinkingly, and she hurried to clarify. Her dreams were always worse after one of her Tuesday sessions, after talking about it. “Just to sleep, I mean.”

 

“Little bird.” She looked up at the nickname. He’d called her such for weeks, before she'd been able to convince him to use her actual name. He still referred to her in that way more than he called her Sansa.

 

“You can have whatever you want.”

 

It warmed her, and her smile came steadier this time. She reached for another lemoncake.

 

“Promise?”


	2. Special Treasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different.

“Dolls are stupid.”

 

“ _ You’re  _ stupid. It’s not a doll, see?”

 

Sansa held the little figure up, and Sandor could see she was right. It was an action figure, a superhero one he didn’t know.

 

“Cool!” He twisted on the blanket, reaching for the little truck. It was his most special treasure, because it was all his. Pa hadn’t given it to him, so he couldn’t take it away. No one even knew he had it, except for Sansa, and she wouldn’t tell. The gift exchange had happened at school last year, and he hadn’t had anything to give until the teacher had slipped him a wrapped present. When he’d gotten the truck, he’d loved it, and he still did. Maybe he was bit big for it now, but not  _ too _ big. Not yet.

 

Sandor took the little plastic figure, rolling on his back to try and push him into the truck. Sansa sat on his stomach, like she sometimes did. He didn’t know why, only that she’d cry if he pushed her off, so he let her be. She wasn’t that heavy anyway.

 

Sansa pushed a barbie doll, her favorite one, into his hand. “This can be me. That can be us.”

 

“Ok.” It was harder to cram the doll into the truck. It was almost too big, but after some shoving it went in without breaking. “Where are we going?”

 

“Oh! To the beach!” Sansa clapped her hands together, legs splayed over the blanket. She was wearing her tights, even though she  _ always _ tore them. There was already a hole in the knee, and they hadn’t even played hard yet.

 

“I’ve never been to the beach.”

 

“It’s nice. There’s sand and waves, and it’s warm and nice.”

 

“I know what it looks like, dum-dum.” He’d seen pictures.

 

Sansa must really want to go to the beach, because she didn’t even cry, real or pretend. Just got off Sandor’s stomach, and urged him up. He pushed the truck while she made the noises. She wasn’t very good at them, but he let her because she liked it.

 

The car went over the edge of the blanket, and over the dead leaves. The light filtering through the trees wasn’t bright enough, not for the beach. But Sansa said they could pretend. The car swerved around a stump, and Sansa made screechy-car noises that made Sandor smile.

 

They found a spot for the beach, a little mound of sand that Sandor stomped flat. They didn’t have bathing suits for them, but the action figure’s clothes didn’t come off anyway. So the truck just drove down the beach some, and Sansa made what she  _ said _ were wave noises, though it just sounded like the wind to him.

 

The game ended quickly when the ants broke out of the sand pile, and Sansa shrieked, backing away. Sandor snatched the truck up and followed, back to the blanket.

 

“Ew ew  _ ew _ .” Sansa was brushing at her arms, even though none of them had touched her, not that Sandor could see.

 

“It’s just bugs.”

 

“Bugs are gross.”

 

Sandor put the truck carefully next to the bag of crackers. He didn’t feel like trying to pull the toys out of it now, but those were all they had today. Sandor had started bringing his truck every day, and Sansa always brought some of her own toys. She could go get something else, they’d done that before. You could almost see her house through the trees- it was big, like a castle. Sometimes Sandor wanted to see what it looked like inside, but that would mean Sansa wasn’t his  _ secret _ friend anymore, and he liked her that way.

 

“What should we do now?”

 

Sansa hugged her knees, and Sandor could see right up her dress, could see the print of her underwear underneath it. He laughed and pointed, but Sansa just stuck her tongue out at him without fixing it.

 

“Let’s play pets.”

 

“What’s that?” It sounded like when she’d wanted to play house, and that had been boring. The only way he would play now was if it was superhero house. They solved crimes and then had to run back to their stick-house, trying not to giggle and acting normal. They took turns being the police who’d ask questions. Sandor liked being Spiderman the best.

 

“It’s pets. You be the dog, and I get to feed you and take you on walks.” She rolled over onto her front, legs in the air, as she reached for the bag of crackers she’d brought. She broke them up, putting them down on the blanket. “And you eat with your mouth, no hands.”

 

He made a face. It didn’t bother him so much when Pa called him puppy, he’d been doing that for years. But when Gregor did-

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“Pleeeease?” When he still shook his head, she huffed at him, hands on her hips. “Fine. I’ll be the dog then.”

 

But Sandor didn’t like that either. “Let’s play something else.”

 

“Ok. Let’s do gymnast.” Sandor liked that game, so he nodded, following her through the trees.The big log was still there, though Sansa said, like she always did, that her Daddy would be getting rid of it soon. 

 

The top of the log was slippery when they walked along it, arms outstretched, and Sansa fell their second time over. She cried ‘till Sandor gave her his shirt to wear as a cape. Supergirl didn’t cry, even though she was bleeding through her tights. 

 

The air felt good on his chest, even though the branches whipped across it as he chased after Sansa. He knew where she was going, and he almost beat her there, even though she cheated and started without saying. The little clearing was full of light, and Sansa’s shirt-cape whipped through the air. She could do cartwheels, but Sandor could jump high. Higher than her, maybe higher that anyone ever.

 

Sansa slumped back on the ground, panting. “I win!”

 

“You do not! I did more jumps than you, and I didn’t fall once.”

 

Sansa sat up, frowning at him. “That wasn’t me, I’m Supergirl.”

 

“Well, I’m bigger.”

 

“I’m older.”

 

“Only by a little.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. Still counts.”

 

She was right, but he opened his mouth to argue anyway. But Sansa was already running, back towards the blanket. He beat her this time, and they both lay back on the blanket, Sandor picking at the little pile of broken crackers.

 

Sansa rolled towards him, poking at the side of his face. “Does it hurt today?”

 

“No.” Sandor could feel the pressure of her fingers against his face, but it wasn't as much as the other side would. His stomach felt tight at the memory of the pain, and he pulled away quickly, Sansa’s fingers thumping back down to the blanket.

 

He hated his scars. Most grown-ups cried when they first saw him, then tried to make much of him, which he didn’t like. And kids his own age always ran away. Sansa had too, but the next day at the playground, she’d come up and given him her cookie to say sorry. Her Mamma had told her to do that, but she’d also whispered to him, asking him to come and play tomorrow. So he’d been her secret friend, and she was his. She was his only friend, so that meant she was his best friend too. Sandor hoped he was hers, but he didn’t ask.

 

“We could go to town.”

 

But Sansa shook her head, hair coming out of her braids. She had a pretty butterfly clip thing holding them back, but it was almost falling out. He knew she had more because she’d given one to him. It was another just-Sandor’s treasure, and he had it hidden under his pillow at home.

 

“It’ll be fun.” There was almost always something to do in town. If you went to the garbage by the diner at the right time of day, there were lots of newspapers in there, and he could sometimes find the funnies if he looked enough. And the fat lady who ran the bakery always gave him something when he came around. Usually some hot bread, sometimes with honey, but last week she’d given him a big thick brownie, and the memory still made his mouth water. It was the most chocolatey thing he’d ever eaten. He wished she would again, only he thought she had because of the big bruise on his cheek, and he didn’t want  _ that  _ to happen again.

 

“You know I can’t I’m not allowed. They’ll get angry, and I’ll be in trouble.” He nodded, letting his head drop down on the blanket again. He knew what happened when grown-ups got angry.

 

They lay quietly for a while, listening to the sounds of the birds cheeping in the trees. Sansa held his hand. He didn’t know why she did that, but he liked it.

 

Sansa sat up when she heard the call from the house. Sandor was hungry too, but he had the crackers Sansa had brought him. It wouldn’t be long; she always hurried. And sometimes she even brought out her sandwich for him to share.

 

Sansa turned towards him. “You’ll come in right?”

 

He stared at her. “Why?” What was the point of being her secret friend if people knew?

 

“They told me. Arya was sneaking, and she saw us. And she told them, and Mommy said next time you came to play, you were supposed to come in for lunch too.”

 

“I guess.” There was a knot in his belly. He’d liked being her secret friend. But he was hungry. And the knot went away some when she smiled at him, towing him towards the house by his hand.


	3. Protection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first shot at a fic within the ASOIAF world. All my others, here and elsewhere, have been modern AUs. But hey, what's this collection for if not trying new things?
> 
> Blithely ignoring Canon storyline, for my own purpose. You have been warned.

Sansa was sitting neatly at the cushioned seat built into the window when he burst in. Crying out in alarm, she dropped the embroidery to the floor, badly pricking her finger. The Hound strode up to her, pulling her to her feet by the arm.

 

“Get whatever you need. We’re leaving.”

 

“Leaving? Why?” Sansa pulled her arm from his grasp, and saw with some dismay that there were smears of dark red on the pale blue silk. Catching her breath, she looked at his hands- the gauntlets were red and dripping. But his sword wasn’t drawn.

 

He paid her question no mind, looking her up and down, taking in her summer silks.

 

“Can you ride in that?”

 

She glanced down at herself. “No.” The skirt was not divided, and was too delicate for the saddle besides.

 

“Then put on something _else_.” He turned to her wardrobe, yanking open the door and rifling through her gowns as though he planned to dress her himself. Sansa grasped his arm, but he didn’t seem to notice her grip through the heavy plate.

 

“Please, _please_. What’s happened?” She was breathing heavily as he finally turned to look at her, eyes hard.

 

“What happened? They found you is what happened.”

 

For a moment, Sansa thought she might faint. Nothing seemed real, not even the floor beneath her feet, the Hound’s arm in her grasp. But as her vision was whiting out, a hand gripped her shoulder hard, shaking her.

 

“None of that, not now. There’s no bloody time for that.”

 

She bit her tongue as he roughly shook her, and the pain brought her back to earth. She didn’t remember clutching at his shoulders, but she was. Sansa was also aware that she was crying, big shuddery, childish sobs. But when she was pushed at the wardrobe, she blinked away her tears, and selected a warm, brown wool that would cover her from throat to ankles. It took time without Bessa to help her, but she got out of her silks and into the traveling gown, laces knotted clumsily with trembling fingers.

 

When she emerged from behind the screen, the Hound was still there, and he tossed a dark cloak at her. She scarcely had enough time to put it on and gather her jewels before he was marching her out the door, hand wrapped around her upper arm. Sansa could see that the other residents of the keep were just as confused and upset as she, milling around at the sight of their lord in such a state.

 

When they emerged into the courtyard, she saw that the men were assembled. Clegane Keep did not boast many soldiers, and even less lived near to the keep, but Sansa saw that all the men present were young, and well armed and armoured.

 

Clegane lifted her into the saddle like a child, and swung up onto his own mount, and just like that they were away. Sansa twisted in her saddle, trying to see the keep one more time, but it had already been swallowed by the forest.

 

They rode hard the first hour or so, and Sansa focused on trying not to bounce too much in the saddle. It had been far too long since she’d been riding, and she’d never had much skill to begin with. When they slowed to a trot, turning down a small dirt road that Sansa didn’t know, she urged her mare further up, so that she might be level with the Hound- level with _Clegane._ It wasn’t right to call him the Hound anymore, not after all he’d done for her.

 

“Tell me everything. Please.”

 

He glanced over at her, and she saw that sometime in their hurried departure, he’d put on a helm, not the Hound’s head, but a plain one. It covered his face, which was most likely the point of it.

 

“Later. Pull your bloody cloak up, girl.” She did so, taking care that all her hair was covered. She’d stopped staining it, not now, when she’d thought they were safe. She glanced behind them, swallowing hard, trying to listen over the drumming of their hoofbeats.

 

“So long as we make good time, we should be alright.”

 

Sansa up at him again, to where he sat towering over her little mare on his courser. “But the blood-”

 

“Littlefinger’s man. The buggering fool thought to double his gold.”

 

“Did he?”

 

Clegane smiled, and it was not a pleasant one. The man was dead then- and likely not a pleasant death, given the blood she’d seen splattered over the front of his armor, and dried onto his gauntlets.

 

The rest of the day was spent at a brisk trot, and Clegane drove them on all through the night. By the time dawn was rising, Sansa was wilting in the saddle. The second time she snapped awake seconds before a nasty fall, she found herself lifted from her seat, and settled in a new one much higher than her own had been. There was cold hardness behind and around her, and she blinked in the morning light.

 

“Sleep, little bird. I won’t let you fall.”

 

He wouldn’t. It was almost like that first night, only there was no fire. Her eyes drifted closed.

 

Seemingly only a moment later, she jolted awake almost violently, her world seeming to tilt beneath her. Then, she realized she was being handed down from the saddle- Clegane’s saddle. It was Ormund, a courtly young knight she’d sometimes taken the time with after the midday meal. It had disappointed her when he’d laughingly told her she reminded him of his sister, but it was not as though anything could have come of it. She was supposed to be the Hound’s mistress after all, and no man in his right mind would touch her with him near.

 

“Come, milady, we’ll be building a fire.”

 

She smiled at him for the courtesy. The polite ones called her milady to her face, and a mistress behind her back. The coarser ones referred to her as his little whore. Some had once called her the Hound’s bitch, but Clegane had killed them, and no one used the phrase where she could hear it anymore.

 

They did indead build a fire, and some of the men went out for a time, returning with a plump brace of rabbits. Sansa looked around at the old stone structure, where they would seemingly be resting. There was no roof was left to speak of, and the walls had fallen down in some places. But it was shelter of a sort, she supposed. More than large enough for their party. How long had she slept? It hadn’t felt like very long, but the sun was higher in the sky than it had been.

 

Sansa took the leg that was offered to her, pulling at the hot flesh with her teeth. She tried to keep the grease from dripping to her cloak or dress- these were the only clothes she had for now. She sat quietly beside Clegane, waiting as he ate his own portion.

 

When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she spoke up. “Where- where are we going?”

 

Ormund answered her when Clegane kept his silence, wiping greasy fingers on his cloak as he did so. “Did no one tell you, Lya? We’re going to join Lord Stannis.”

 

“ _King_ Stannis. If we’re joining him, that means he’s our king now, and we’d best remember it.” That was another of the men, a serious eyed, sandy haired fellow that Sansa didn’t know. They all broke out in laughter, and Sansa realized it was a game to them. They’d likely fight in the war, one way or another. What was one king over another in Clegane Keep? These men were all far younger than most soldiers that Sansa had known- some of an age with Sansa herself. She suspected that Clegane had chosen to keep men about him that had never served his brother. She knew he’d scoured the keep of those that had been there when he’d arrived.

 

She glanced at him sitting next to her, willing him to tell her something, _anything._ He watched her, eyes red rimmed in his scarred face. Then he tossed aside the bones he’d been gnawing on, and motioned her up with a jerk of his head. She followed him, head down and docile, into the woods, knowing the men would assume Clegane wanted her now and wouldn’t disturb them. After all, why else would he have taken his whore with them on the road to begin with? Likely they were all joking about it now, and she’d have lewd comments and speculating stares to put up with on the morrow. She knew they all wondered why he put her up in his own keep, and had kept her in silk and jewels besides. They knew her as a miller’s daughter that their lord had taken back with him when he’d come to his lands. A lord might have his whores, but it was unheard of to be treated as Sansa had been. The girls in the kitchen had liked to tell her that she must have something special under her skirts, to be kept so well for so long. She always tried to laugh along with them, but her face had reddened each time, despite her efforts to keep her composure.

 

Clegane did not lead her far, just out of sight of the building, where they could still hear them men’s voices and laughter in the still, warm air. Sansa clasped her hands in front of her. She thought she would never be truly comfortable around the man, but they’d spent enough time in each other's presence these past few years that she’d lost most of her fear of him.

 

“Are we really joining Lord Stannis?”

 

“Yes. He took back Winterfell, did you know that?”

 

She hadn’t. “The Boltons are dead then?” At his nod, she pressed on. “And Arya?”

 

“It was never your sister. Some northern girl, they say, that Littlefinger dressed in fine wool, and pinned a wolf's head brooch on.”

 

“Oh.” It had been too much to hope. But then, it was good that it hadn’t been Arya. Even this far south, the gossip of how the newly legitimized Bolton heir treated his brides had reached Sansa’s ears. She’d had to excuse herself from the breakfast table, and had spent the rest of the morning retching over her gardrobe. Which had led, when Bessa found her, to talk that ‘Lya’ was growing with Clegane’s child. Time had proved them wrong though. She was thought now to be barren, as she had never conceived, and was not known to be drinking moontea.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because he’s the only other king in these parts. And because of you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“He’s trying to win the Northmen to his cause, and a true Stark in Winterfell again? He’ll need you to bring the them all to heel for him. Wouldn’t hurt when he talks to the Blackfish either.”

 

Sansa knew her Uncle Brynden was barricaded in Riverrun, holding off the a Lannister invasion. What good could his support do Lord- _King_ Stannis? She shook her head. She ought to remember that now- the solemn soldier had the right of it. The thought almost made her smile. Joffrey was not her king now, and never would be. No matter Stannis’s fate in the war, Sansa would ensure she never fell into Lannister hands again. She’d thought of it when Clegane had given her that knife to put into her boot, though she hadn’t told him of her thoughts. That would only make him take the little dagger away, and she thought he’d had it made special. It fit her hand perfectly, and was more ornamental than what she’d seen him carry.

 

But those were dark thoughts to have now. Sansa would be going home. A small smile twitched at her lips. It had been years since she’d seen Winterfell, since she’d been a child.

 

Then, the thought struck her like a physical blow.

 

She looked up at Clegane again. “He- King Stannis, he’ll make me marry, won’t he?”

 

“No doubt. It’s more than he could hope for, to have the last Stark delivered to him, alive and _intact.”_ He smirked a little at that last, and she frowned.

 

“Could we tell him I’m not? A maid, I mean.” She had survived the stares as Lya, she could weather them as Sansa as well.

 

He snorted. “You think he won’t have some maester check? Besides, maid or no, he’ll marry you to some lord of his to bind you to him.”

 

Sansa closed her eyes. The talk of the men was loud, too loud. Why weren’t they keeping their voices low, so as not to be heard? She heard Clegane walk away, back towards the others. She just stood there, shivering in her cloak in the warm air.

 

It never stopped. She’d thought she had escaped all that, when Clegane had made himself her unlikely savior. She’d worried, as time had passed, that he might expect her to bed him and become his women in truth. But he’d never pressed. He looked, but he’d always done that. Most men did.

 

So she’d thought she would be left alone in her pretty rooms in Clegane Keep, and be Lya forever. She had thought that perhaps in time, the memory of Sansa Stark would fade, and she’d be safe to seek her happiness somewhere, in the arms of some merchant or tradesmen. Or maybe just grow old with her books and her flowers in the keep, if Clegane let her. But no. The world wasn’t done with her, not yet. Not even after all it had put her through.

 

A branch snapped in the forest, and her eyes popped open, frantically looking from side to side. Only a deer, but she still hurried back to the others. Her arrival brought a few nudges and winks, but nothing more overt. Most of the men were making themselves comfortable under their cloaks, and Sansa gathered that they would be doing their riding by night.

 

She sat in her corner beside Clegane, and the thought struck her. Would he expect her to bed down with him, with all the men nearby? To keep up their facade? He broke her frozen panic by yawning widely, and settling down himself, still in his armour, a little ways away from her. She shook out her cloak and settled under it, shaking her head. That was sheer foolishness, which could be attributed only to the shock of her new situation. He’d never spent the night in her rooms back at the keep, though he’d spent enough time there to continue their farce. The men would not expect that they would do so here.

 

The ground was hard underneath her, and Sansa shifted uncomfortably, a root digging into her back. It was so like that first night that it shocked her. She must’ve grown soft again, with her featherbeds and her pillows.

  


\------

  


He’d been winesodden that first night, at first angry, holding her across the bed with a knife to her throat. Then, he’d only seemed broken. He’d asked and she’d nodded, and she had found herself being borne across a battlefield, hiding herself under Clegane’s cloak as men fought and died around them. She hadn’t known where they were going, and truth be told, she hadn’t cared. They were all dead now; Mother, Robb, Father-

 

He’d promised her safety, and anything was better than staying in court.

 

There had been a few days with him in the woods, and then came days of hiding alone in the dirty little house Clegane had found for her, with only apples to eat and streamwater to drink. But then a new miller and his wife had come to Denton, a town just north of King’s Landing. A bag of coin later, and they had a young maiden daughter with newly darkened hair. Maggie and Karl had been old, old and kind. At first, they’d tried to pamper her, treat her as the lady she was. But in the hunger and need after the war, all hands were needed, lest the townsfolk grow angry. So Sansa had learned to gather the wheat, and how to us the mill to turn it to flour. Her hands had cracked and bled, and her skin reddened under the sun. But after a time, her palms toughened, and her skin darkened, a crop of freckles appearing across her nose and cheeks.

 

Sometimes it had been hard to remember that she was not Lya, the miller’s daughter. When old Karl was making her laugh, or when Duncan from the edge of town brought her wildflowers, and talked about how he wanted to be a knight someday.

 

But when Clegane had come back for her, months after he’d delivered her, both Lya and Sansa Stark had gone with him. He’d told her the Lannisters were searching for her in Winterfell.

 

Much had happened while Sansa had been picking grain- for his cowardice at the Blackwater, Clegane had been stripped of his white cloak, and made to serve with the City Watch. He had done so faithfully until his brother’s death, which was suspected to have been committed by a Dornishman- an act of revenge for the Dornish princess, dead nigh on twenty years now. Then Sandor Clegane the soldier had become Sandor Clegane the lord. He had left for his home alone and with no fanfare, stopping only to collect a miller’s daughter to bring with him.

 

He had not told Sansa if he had killed his brother, but she thought he must have. His death had allowed Clegane to leave the city, and provided Sansa with the refuge he’d promised her. She hadn’t asked, not during their long and mostly silent journey, and not after they’d arrived.

 

It had felt odd, at first, to sleep on a featherbed instead of a straw-stuffed tick on the floor. To sit and embroider and read rather than work. But as time went by, her tan had faded, and her hands had grown soft again. Clegane rarely spoke to her, and in the times he visited her in her rooms, sending her chambermaid away, he’d only sat by the window seeing to his weapons.

 

For a man so seemingly disinterested in her, he took care to ensure she was provided for as a lady should be. There had been a harp made for her, so she might practice again, and she’d delighted in the silks and jewels he’d found for her, although they were inferior to what she’d known at home or in the capitol. So she’d worn her silks and her little jewels, reading her books and sewing to fill the time. And there she’d sat, until the previous afternoon.

  


\------

  


Sansa swayed on the deck, gripping the rail with numb hands. The spray was hitting her hard in the face, making her eyes sting.

 

“You should go below, milady!” Ser Ormund had to shout to make himself heard above the pounding of the waves. It almost made her smile. Ormund had been one of the men who’d been retching over the rail when they’d left port, and one of the few who’d kept retching for nearly a week.

 

“Of course, Ser. But I was looking for Lord Clegane. Would you send him to me please?”

 

“Of course, Lady Sansa.”

 

With a smile, she took her leave of him, swaying and jolting down to her cabin. Ormund, at least, treated Sansa no differently now. But then, he’d always been gallant with her. The others watched her when she turned her back to them, and she heard the muttering. The highest among them were hedge knights, and the whole lot of them had no experience in dealing with ladies. Especially a _high_ lady like they’d been calling her. Sansa rather thought they were confused, more than anything, over the nature of her relationship with their lord. But Sansa nor did not choose to enlighten them, and as far as she knew Clegane hadn't either.

 

She couldn’t help but smirk as she entered the little cabin. She could tell when she spoke to the men now that every lewd comment they’d ever made to her was whirling through their heads. She had to confess that she rather enjoyed it. She was a lady to them now, though she’d never truly changed. Perhaps a little when she’d been living in Denton, but ensconced in her rooms at Clegane Keep, she had allowed herself to be Sansa again, if only to herself. She discarded her wet cloak, hanging it over the little bunk to dry. Running her fingers through her hair, she grimaced wishing for a glass or a comb- anything.

 

The knock on her door jolted her, and her heart pounded ever harder. Steeling herself, Sansa opened the cabin door. There he stood- near taller than the doorframe. She hadn’t seen him, not really, since they’d boarded the ship, and revealed her identity to the men and to the Northern captain. Although the cabin had been booked in his name when they’d found the ship, Clegane had turned it over to her use, choosing to bed down in the bunkroom with the men.

 

“Please, come in.”

 

She stood aside for him, and he entered, hair and cloak dripping onto the floor. Sansa sat on the edge of the bunk, and gestured for him to take the only chair, which he sat in rather gingerly. It looked far to small for him, although he wasn’t wearing his armour for once. She realised abruptly, as she smoothed her skirts nervously over her hips, that she’d never seen him without it. The little room suddenly seemed far too small, the motions of the ship violent, although she’d adjusted to the constant swaying weeks ago.

 

Licking her lips, Sansa realized she’d been staring, and that the man was growing impatient, a furrow forming between his brows.

 

 _Focus_.

 

She was acting the fool. Of course he wasn’t wearing his armour; what man aboard a friendly ship in violent seas would do so? She’d been alone with Clegane countless times over the past few years. Why was today any different?

 

_Of course it’s different._

 

Sansa gave herself a little shake, trying to push away her nerves. She clasped her hands in her lap to calm their trembling. She was Sansa Stark, true Lady of Winterfell. Perhaps soon to be Warden of the North. She was doing what she must.

 

“What is it, girl? I’ve got better things to do than to sit here all day.”

 

That wasn’t true, only maybe he didn’t know it yet. There wasn’t much to do on board a ship. The men drank and diced and talked, and Sansa assumed Clegane had been doing the same; perhaps excepting the latter.

 

He was looking at her, eyes narrowed. He had always been able to sense the fear in her, sniffing it out like the dog they called him. There hadn’t been cause for it in some time, and it irked her that she was in the grips of it now.

 

“I have- a proposition for you.”

 

He sat back in his seat, boots planted on the rough floor as a large swell rocked the boat. Sansa swayed slightly on the bed, but kept her eyes on the man opposite her.

 

“And what would that be?

 

Sansa clenched her hands tightly in her lap. “King Stannis will want to wed me to a man of his choosing- some lord high amongst his own supporters, most like.” He continued to look at her, face unchanging. “I don’t want that.”

 

“I know. That doesn’t bloody change anything, does it now? Where else would you have us go? The ravens have been sent, there’s no going back now.”

 

Both he and Sansa had written their letters to Stannis just before the ship had disembarked- the both of them giving their own accounts of the past few years, along with their signatures. Although Clegane had scanned her own letter before sending the both of them out, Sansa had not seen his. She had no doubt that he had assured their new king, as she had, that Sansa had remained innocent during her stay in Lannister territory, and that any rumors to the contrary had been for her own protection.

 

“I want to go to Winterfell, that hasn't changed.” It wouldn’t be the same, walking the halls without hearing Septa Mordane calling after Arya to _slow down,_ without Rickon clinging to her legs with chubby hands. But the Starks belonged in Winterfell. She had been too long in the South. Stannis may or may not allow her the title of Warden of the North, but she was the last surviving Stark. Winterfell was hers by right, and from what she had heard of Stannis, he would not deny her claim.

 

“But-” Her nerve almost failed her as she looked up at him. His size, his scars, and the scowl on his face all quickened her heart as it beat wildly in her breast.

 

“Out with it.” Still, he did not see- he would be angry, certainly at first, but she would make him see that this way would be best for the both of them. He _had_ to. It was the only way.

 

“If- no man can force me to marry, not if I’m already a woman wed.”

 

Sansa could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. Or was that the waves?

 

Clegane was staring at her, face not angry as she had feared, but rather closed off and empty.

 

“No.”

 

“Please,” But she closed her mouth with a snap as he rose to his feet, towering over her.

 

“The only way I have any fucking chance of making it through this alive is if I deliver you, all unspoiled, to the King. Did you really think-” He rubbed a hand over his face, and made for the door.

 

“Wait!”

 

She clutched at his arm, and although he could have easily pulled away, he allowed her to stop him. She stared up at his face, into those hard gray eyes, willing him to _see_ , to understand.

 

“You said- you said that nobody would hurt me, not ever again.”

 

“No one will. You’ll be the last Stark in the North- you think those Northmen will let any ill befall you?”

 

“They can’t protect me from my lord husband. And I’ll have no choice in that there. But here, I do.” Sansa had been mulling it over for weeks, days before they’d made it to port. She had been steady in the saddle after that first night, enough that Clegane had not felt the need to interfere with her riding again, and after a rebuke from him, the men had been silent as they carried on. That had left her free to think, and to look at the back of his head as they rode. His face had been hidden by that helm, but there was no mistaking his stature.

 

She had taken note of the Septon aboard the ship; young and drunken though he might be. The man had a small berth all of his own, and she had learned that he was to serve under the aging Septon at Stony Shore.

 

Clegane released his hold on the door handle, and turned to face Sansa fully. “You think they’d hurt you?” At her nod, he advanced further into the room, keeping the space between them small as she retreated. “You think I wouldn’t?”

 

“It’s not the same. I know you.” She trusted Clegane, for all his shortcomings. He’d said he wouldn’t allow anyone to harm her, and he’d kept to that. He’d said he himself wouldn’t harm her, would not touch her, and he’d held to that too.

 

He lowered himself to one knee before her, his face at the level of her own. “Is this what you want?” She could see every line in his face, every detail of his scars. The breath that washed over her reeked of wine, the strong red he favored.

 

_No._

 

“Yes.”

 

He was close enough that it would be nothing for him to touch her. His eyes were unblinking as they bored into her own. “Still a bad liar, little bird.”

 

He rose to his feet, retreating to the chair again, and she lowered herself to the bed with trembling legs. Swallowing hard, she stiffened her spine. This was what she wanted. He hadn’t refused again, and hadn’t left.

 

Slouching in the chair, Clegane still looked too large for the room. For a time, they simply looked at one another as the ship rolled beneath them. Then, finally, the man spoke once more.

 

“And if our new king should choose to make you a widow once we arrive?”

 

Sansa felt a slight thrill of triumph run through her, and she sat up as straight as she could on the lumpy mattress. “I wouldn’t let him. I’d tell him- I’d say that we fell in love, and that’s why you stole away with me.” With a different hero, it would have sounded like one of the songs Sansa had cried over in her youth. A member of the Kingsguard, the young heiress to the North trapped among enemies-

 

Clegane looked less than impressed. “You think he’ll believe that? Do you know what I think?” He did not give Sansa the time to reply before continuing. “I think King Stannis will see the facts, such as they are. A poorly landed second son, suddenly wed to the Lady of Winterfell. Like as not by no choice of her own.”

 

“But it is my choice.”

 

“Spare me your chirping. I’m the only _lord_ here. If you’re to do this thing, there’s no other choice for you.” He curled his lip at his own title, although what was left of the flesh of his mouth on the burned half of his face did not move.

 

“There _is_ a choice, the only one I’m likely to have. And I’ve made it.” She lifted her chin as he watched her. “I’ll tell Stannis that I was grateful to you, for all you did for me, and wanted to ensure your survival.” There was some truth to that, and Sansa thought Clegane could see it.

 

He looked down, eyes leaving hers for the first time since he’d truly understood her scheme. “I’ll likely be dead soon. Another mark in my favor.”

 

When he looked up again, she nodded. It pained her to do so, but he wanted the truth and she would give it to him. Assuming Stannis did not execute him for his ties to the Lannisters, or for wedding and bedding the Lady of Winterfell, Clegane would join the fight to secure the Seven Kingdoms for him. They were ten days from Stony Shore, and it was perhaps a fortnight from there until they reached Winterfell, assuming that Stannis hadn’t ridden to meet them. And then Sansa would be left alone while her lord husband fought somewhere down south, or in the Riverlands.

 

While the other men might don their new king’s colors and arms if they so chose, their lord’s stature and scars would make him nigh on impossible to mistake. Every soldier in the Lannister army, great or small, would seek to kill him to curry favor with their king. And if he should meet his end, Sansa would have had time to meet her own bannermen, as well as the king’s. Perhaps she would have been able to ingratiate herself enough with her new sovereign to have some say in his choice of husband for her.

 

If nothing else, it would buy her time. Weeks, months- perhaps even longer.

 

Clegane could see all that, Sansa knew. She kept her silence as he watched his boots, hand scrubbing over his face, through the thick beard he’d been growing these past few weeks.

 

_Please. Just this one kindness._

 

Then his eyes met hers once more, and he nodded.

  


\-------

  


The ceremony, such as it was, would be quick. There was no one to give her away, no feast to prepare, and they would not have the men attend. Clegane had left, muttering about finding the septon, and the captain to serve as a witness. Sansa was left in her cabin alone, to await her wedding.

 

This was not, as a child or as a maiden, how she’d pictured the eve of her wedding. But it was better, surely, than waiting to be given to some stranger by a king she’d never met. Sansa splashed water from the covered pitcher beside the bed onto her face, and after a brief hesitation, onto the rest of her as well. She licked the seasalt from her lips and wished for a bath.

 

She was just struggling with her laces, when there came a knock at the door. Sansa swung her hair behind her to conceal the undone portion of her gown, and opened the door. The words died on her lips when she saw, not Clegane, but Jeyne, the captain’s wife.

 

“They’re ready for you, milady.” But rather than gesturing for Sansa to follow her, she hovered at the doorway, licking her lips.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Beggin’ your pardons, but I thought you might want this.” Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. It was only an old wooden comb, worn with use and with several teeth missing, but it seemed a treasure to Sansa.

 

“Thank you.” Jeyne ducked her head a bit nervously, and began to turn away.

 

“Wait- please.” The woman turned back, one hand kneading nervously at a handful of her woolen skirts. “You’re the only woman here.” Sansa looked her, biting her lip.

 

After a brief hesitation, Jeyne nodded.

 

It took some time, but between the two of them, they managed to remove the tangles from her hair. It was not exactly smooth, but was much better than it had been. Elaborate styles would be impractical in the weather, not to mention unsuitable with the dress, even if Jeyne had known how to do them in the first place. So her hair was plaited straight down her back. Jeyne did up the rest of her laces for her, although Sansa had become accustomed to doing them herself. She was glad for it; she had never been able to pull them as tight as they ought to be.

 

“Milady?”

 

It was strange. She had always expected, growing up in Winterfell, that her oldest friend would be among her attendants the day of her wedding. And here she was with another Jeyne, although she hadn’t seen the steward’s daughter in years. Perhaps it was a sign from the gods that she had done something right.

 

“Yes?”

 

Sansa tugged at her skirt as she turned to face the other woman, but there was no helping the dress. It was travel stained, wrinkled, and dirty, as she had not been able to wash it for nearly a fortnight now, and that had only been a scrub with saltwater and a stiff bar of soap borrowed from Jeyne. It smelled of salt and smoke and sweat, but there was nothing for it. It was the only dress she had now.

 

It startled her when Jeyne took her hand, and she looked the other woman in the eye. They were a dark honey-brown, and concerned. She was not really much older than Sansa, and she had taken Jeyne for the old captain’s daughter at first glance. But she looked much older than her years now, as she held Sansa’s hand between both of her own, and Sansa could almost imagine that her eyes were blue, her hair the same red as Sansa’s own.

 

“Is he- is that man forcing you, milady? To marry him?”

 

“Oh- no. It was my choice.”

 

The girl looked so startled at her words that Sansa almost laughed to see it. The illusion was broken, and Jeyne’s hair was a dirty blonde again. She turned to fetch her cloak, as stained as the dress she wore. It would have to be her maiden’s cloak today. The thought clenched in her belly.

 

“I’m sorry-”

 

“No, no. It’s alright.” She would have to get used to answering that question, and more invasive, difficult ones. They were sure to come when she faced Stannis, and her own bannermen besides.

 

Her eyes were drawn to the bed, and her stomach spasmed again. Clegane had said, before he’d left her, that they’d have to present the sheet to Stannis, as proof of her status before their consummation. Though he’d also said that Stannis likely wouldn't believe it, however bloody the sheets.

 

“Milady-”

 

“ _Sansa._ ” It was improper, but she took the other woman’s hand in her as she said it. She was not her old friend, or her sister or mother- but she was somebody. She _needed_ somebody.

 

“S-sansa.” The girl tripped over her name, as though it were difficult to say. Sansa tried to smile encouragingly at her, but it felt more like a grimace on her face. “It’ll be hard,” Jeyne continued after a slight pause, “The first time. ‘Specially with a man that size. But it gets easier.”

 

Rather than soothing her, Jeyne’s words knotted her stomach all the more. But Sansa nodded.

 

“I trust him.”

  


\------

  


It was quicker than she imagined. A few words from the hiccuping Septon, a few more from the two of them, a cloak draped around her shoulders, and Sansa Stark was a married woman. Almost.

 

The lantern in Sansa’s cabin was burning low, and she stood by the little porthole, unwilling to sit on the bed this time. Her new husband’s cloak was still gathered around her, damp from the rain, pooled around her feet. The ship swayed, and she watched the swells of the waves from her vantage. The storm was growing wilder; some of the larger waves nearly reached her little window.

 

The dimming of the light had her turning, and she saw Clegane bending to snuff it out.

 

“No-”

 

But he did not stop, and she was engulfed in darkness. Eyes wide and straining, Sansa could see nothing. There was a little light from the porthole behind her, but not nearly enough to see him where he stood. Sansa jumped at the thump, but that was only Clegane sitting on the bed. She could hear rustling, the sound of moving fabric, and she knew that it was time.

 

Stepping away from the round window brought her closer to the bed than she liked, but she did not want to be watched. The laces on her gown, so competently tied by Jeyne, had swollen with the rain as she had walked over the deck from her own cabin to the captain’s and back again. It took both too long and not long enough to work the knots loose. The wet wool fell to the ground with the cloak, leaving her only in her shift and small-clothes. She couldn’t quite bring herself to remove those yet, not even in this darkness, so Sansa supported herself with a hand to the back of the only chair as she removed both her boots.

 

Then she stood, stockinged toes curling away from the cold floor. Waiting.

 

She blinked into the blackness before her, wondering if he could see better than she could. Did she want him to?

 

Sansa jumped as the bed creaked, but there were no hands descending upon her to strip away the last of her coverings. He must be standing right in front of her, but try as she might, she couldn’t see him.

 

“Little bird.”

 

The rasp came closer than she’d expected, and she jolted again.

 

“I won’t be gentle.”

 

He wouldn’t be. Clegane had wanted her for a long time, she knew. Since back at the capitol. And never once had he touched her, not even when she’d thought she would be living out her days as his whore in his keep. He was a rough man, rough of hand and of word. No, he wouldn’t be gentle. But Sansa thought he might try.

 

She groped in the darkness for his hand, and when she found it, drew it to her thinly covered stomach. Her muscles fluttered under his palm, as his fingers curled around her hip.

 

“I know.”

  


\------

  


Sansa emerged onto the open deck, enjoying the feel of sunshine on her upturned face. Most of the men were up here as well, though the sailors running to and fro across the deck shouted at them to keep out of the way. Doubtless they were here for the same reason as she- Jeyne had brought down her regular bowl of lukewarm porridge this morning, along with the news that Stony Shore had come into view in the distance. Sansa had eaten and gone through the rest of her morning routine slowly, but she couldn’t help but go up to see.

 

It was closer than she’d expected- although she really couldn’t see from this vantage. She moved from the rail to walk amongst the men, all of whom gave her a wide berth. They must know what had happened- the Septon liked to drink with them. She’d kept to her cabin since the wedding, seeing no one but Jeyne, who brought her meals and emptied her chamber pot. Clegane came most every night, but he always snuffed the light before he came joined her in the too-small berth.

 

When Sansa saw a familiar face, she called out to him. “Ser Ormund-”

 

He turned almost reluctantly to face her. It took Sansa aback to see him- she’d always thought of him as tall. But he seemed much smaller and slighter than she remembered.

 

“Yes Lady- yes milady?”

 

“Have you seen Lord Clegane this morning?” She did not address his fumbling tongue. She did not blame him, really. She’d gone rapidly from Lya, his lord’s bedwarmer, to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, to his leigelady.  It was enough to confuse anybody.

 

“Yes- by the bow, milady.”

 

She took her leave of him then, not lingering to talk. As Lya, she’d enjoyed her conversations with Ormund. As a Lady Sansa, and newly wed at that, she should not speak overlong to the men, and she rather thought it would make him uncomfortable anyway.

 

As Sansa approached the bow, she could make out Clegane’s figure by the rail. Or perhaps she should call him Sandor. He didn’t like it when she addressed him by title, and Clegane seemed rather a cold term for a husband.

 

It was a strange thought that she could claim his name as her own now- although she would always remain Lady Stark as well, due to her own birth being much higher than his own. Her children could as well, and they would. There should always be a Stark in Winterfell.

 

She joined her husband at the rail, her belly fluttering at the thought of children. He had spilled himself inside her every time, and Sansa knew what that meant. He’d said that she could take moontea, that she could get it from any maester in the North, and it need only be taken within the month to work. But she wasn’t sure yet.

 

Clegane- she wasn’t sure she could call him Sandor, not even to herself yet- turned to face her as she fell in beside him. She felt herself color as he looked her over. It was ridiculous really- he’d seen and felt and _claimed_ all of her, and here she was flushing like a silly little girl from just a look. But she couldn’t help thinking about last night. He’d said it was likely their last night, and he might well be right. King Stannis or some of his lords might already be at Stony Shore’s keep to meet them, and they would doubtless be very suspicious of a Lannister turncloak, would lock him away, at least for a time.

 

_Something to remember me by._

 

He’d whispered that in her ear as he’d touched her, and she’d felt herself falling apart beneath him. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known pleasure sometimes passed between men and women- the kitchen girls had liked to talk, after all. Back at the keep, they’d even tried to include Sansa in their frank discussions for a time. She hadn’t joined their talk, but she had listened.

 

She just hadn't expected it to be so- _so._ All had been as she’d expected in her marriage bed- pain the first few times, gradually fading away as time went on. Until he’d touched her like that.

 

Sansa looked out towards the shore, feeling the spray on the warmth of her flushed cheeks. They stood together in silence, Sansa’s hands slowly numbing on the rail despite the strong sunshine, as the shore drew ever closer. Then, he stirred beside her.

 

“Look-”

 

She could see it too. The distant little line of horses, the vague dots of banners along the shoreline. So Stannis had beaten them here. Sansa could almost feel the change between them- Clegane had given her all the protection he had to give. It was her turn now, for whatever that meant. The thought put a hard lump into her throat, that she couldn’t swallow down. All she had here on the boat was herself, and she’d given him that, in some small part to repay him for all he had done for her. She was glad for it. On shore she would have, she hoped, all of the North ready to back her, the last of Eddard Stark’s children. She would try to repay him in kind, and ensure that he went to war whole in body and title.

 

Where he expected to die.

 

She turned to him, the lump in her throat going harder. He regarded her in kind. It was hard to open her mouth, to say the words, but they had to be said.

 

“I wouldn’t mind.” The words blurted out all a tumble, and he blinked at her.

 

“What’s that now?”

 

She licked her lips, although her mouth was nearly as dry. “I wouldn’t mind. If you came back.” His hand, although gloved, was warm when she put her own over it.

 

He just looked at her for a long moment. Then snorted, moving his gaze back to approaching shore, where the banners were growing clearer. “That’s a compliment.”

 

But he didn’t pull away from her hand on his own. And he didn’t say anything about his own cloak on her shoulders, moving in the breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took waaaay too long to finish. One of the reasons I've kept away from doing this sort of fic is because I'd never be satisfied with the dialogue. The stuff that makes me happy in my writings is much more simplistic than what's in the books. But here we are.
> 
> Thoughts?


	4. The Cottonmouth River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Was listening to music, and this got embedded into my head. I really do like creating these little one shots- flashes of a bigger story. Will definitely touch on some of them again though.
> 
> See my notes at the end for the link to the song which inspired this chapter!

The girl was quiet by his side- that was good. Sandor had no wish to hurt her, and he wouldn’t. So long as she  _ stayed _ quiet. The lights in her little house were dark, but the white of her nightdress near glowed as a strip of moonlight from the window fell across it. That hair, a bright spray of copper, tumbled across it. It was a pretty sight, especially for a man who’d not seen a woman in near three years. But now was not the time to look, and not the women to look at.

 

The hounds were coming closer- Sandor could hear them baying, yelping. He shivered, grip tightening on the girl’s arm, just below her capped sleeve. He’d crossed that fucking river, near drowned, been bitten by snakes, and all for nothing. But they wouldn’t take him easy. Sandor would’ve liked a gun, but there was no time to look, and no chance that the girl would tell him. The big knife he’d taken from her would have to do- the knife and the girl, if it came to it.

 

The lights were coming closer now, cutting swaths through the window above the pair of them. The girl shifted, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she thought she could call out. He gritted his teeth. He  _ didn’t _ want to hurt her. She had nothing to do with any of this. If she was smart, she’d keep her mouth shut. The knock came, and Sandor jerked where he knelt on the hard linoleum. Pain flared through his ankle, and he couldn’t stop the hiss that came from between his teeth.

 

“Miss Stark? Police.”

 

The muffled voice was male, young, and alert. Sweat beaded on his brow- the old station wagon was up front. She was obviously home. A few minutes would not be cause for alarm, given the hour, but if no answer came soon-

 

He pulled her close to him, up to his face. He could feel her stiffen as he brought his mouth to her ear.

 

“Answer. Send him away, and no one gets hurt. Not you, and not him.”

 

She turned to face him, shadow darkening her features. “You’ll leave?”

 

Another knock came, sharper this time.  _ Fuck. _

 

He nodded, not trusting his voice. And he would. In his own time. When they were all gone.

 

She crawled to the door, standing up pressed against it. Good- the curtains at the windows were not drawn, and the officer might have a clear view in. Sandor took hold of her nightshirt, low at her knees. Just the hem, but enough that he could jerk her back to him if need be. The knife came up as well, just the tip pressing up against the back of her bare calf. A reminder.

 

She took a long shaky breath, and Sandor felt a drop of sweat roll into his eyes. He blinked it away as she opened the door, leaning around it so that only her torso was visible. She drew back slightly as the light from the unseen man’s flashlight hit her, and raised a hand to shield her eyes. Sandor stared at her feet, dirty and uncovered, at the smears of mud from where he’d dragged her in from outside. The mud might be from anything- but it was fresh. The officer might look, and wonder. Or she could draw his attention to it somehow. He knew the girl was brave, the way she’d confronted him outside, with only the knife that he’d taken from her quick as blinking. He could only hope she wasn’t stupid too.

 

“Officer- what’s going on?”

 

She sounded sleepy, bewildered. Good. She knew what was good for her then.

 

“There’s an inmate at large, Miss, from the prison across the river. We thought he might have come here.”

 

She shifted, dragging one dirt smeared foot across the door. Sandor wished he could see her face. “I haven't seen anything. Is it dangerous? Should I go somewhere?”

 

Sandor’s ankle throbbed again, and a wave of nausea hit him. He swallowed it back hard, and felt her jump slightly through his hold on her shirt. Opening his eyes, he saw a thin trickle of blood down the back of her leg, and eased the pressure on the knife. The officer was talking, a reassuring babble of nonsense that wasn’t making much sense to him. The girl, nonsensically, was even laughing. Then the door closed, and over the pounding of his heart, he could hear the crunch of gravel under boots, fading as the officer exited the drive. The girl was leaning against the door again, face obscured by her hair.

 

She stood straight, and Sandor withdrew the knife, using it to gesture at the windows. Fumblingly, she closed the curtains. He stood, wincing as he straightened his legs. The door’s several locks were satisfying to close. He took hold of the girl again, interrupting her quiet backing away. The bathroom a few steps away had no windows, and he pulled her in with him. That door locked too, and the water from the sink proved to be cold and sweet. He spent several long minutes gulping it down before standing straight again, swiping drops of water from his beard with the back of a hand. 

 

She was wedged in by the toilet, shaky hands seeking the back of it, as though for comfort. The thought of that little stream of blood flashed through his mind, but he pushed the thought away. He did what needed to be done.

 

“The officer said that they were looking for a man. Said I couldn’t mistake him. Almost seven feet tall, with scars down half his face.” He snorted at that. Even without all that, the grey jumpsuit he wore had told the girl all she needed to know the moment she’d seen him. Maybe she’d pulled off her little charade with the officer, but she couldn’t be all that bright. A smart girl would have stolen away quietly, not contronted a man three times her size with only a knife.

 

“He said- he was a  _ violent _ criminal.” 

 

He stared at her. What point was she trying to make? Then her eyes flickered to the closed door.

 

Oh. He pushed his hair back on his forehead- it was still wet from the river, as were his clothes. “Like I said. Do as I say, no one gets hurt.”

 

This didn’t seem to reassure her- on the contrary, she shrunk back into the wall, face whitening all the more. He gritted his teeth, looking down at her.

 

“I mean- I won’t touch you. I don’t do that shit.”

 

He’d never hurt a woman. Been in plenty fights, and killed one son of a bitch, who may or may not have deserved it. Sandor wasn’t sure anymore. But he’d never laid his hands on an unwilling woman, or hurt one either. And he wouldn’t start tonight.

 

His lip curled- Gregor now. He’d do more than touch. Sandor looked away from the girl, fist clenching around the hard rubber knife handle. Gregor had been on death row for near ten years now, and no one had put him down yet. That was the only thing he’d miss about that place. They all knew about his brother, and about his brother’s wives. What he’d done to them. Some of the crueler COs liked to poke at him with tidbits of knowledge about Gregor. He’d have known the instant a date had been set, and no doubt as soon as the deed had been done too. Out here, Sandor could only guess.

 

The throbbing in his ankle increased, a gnawing, burning pain. He reached down to loosen the knot he’d tied just under his knee.

 

“Don’t-”

 

He glanced up. The girl looked just as surprised as he at her own words. She glanced around as though looking for someone to save her. When no one appeared in the little bathroom, she licked her lips, and met his eyes again.

 

“You shouldn’t loosen it.”

 

He watched her closely, trying to see some deceit in her eyes, wide and afraid.

 

“I thought you were supposed to.”

 

“That’s just a myth. I’m guessing you haven't been bitten long ago. You can keep a tourniquet on for longer than most people think.” Her voice was high and frightened, but she spoke with a forced, brisk normality.

 

He just looked at her. She didn’t meet his eyes, staring at his feet. She really was a good-looking woman. There were worse things to look at a time like this. Minutes passed, and he let himself look at her, at the lace around the neck of her night clothes. At the smattering of freckles he could just see under her collarbone. She had one arm crossed over her chest, hand gripping at her other arm, hard. He could see the imprints of his fingers on her wrist, and another absurd shot of guilt went through him. He shook his head, averting his eyes. It was stupid to think that way; a few bruises would heal.

 

“How long will you stay here.”

 

She didn’t ask it like a question. “As long as I need to.” Which might be longer than he liked, still this close to the prison. And if he was unlucky, he wouldn’t be running any races for a while. He might take the girl’s car despite old and ill-cared for it looked.

 

He raised his eyes to her face again, only to see her staring at him, biting her lip. As he met her eyes, her own flicked down to his ankle, then back to his face again. When she spoke, it was so quietly he nearly couldn’t hear her.

 

“I have some antivenom.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. Who just had that shit laying around?

 

She answered his unasked question with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I have to keep it here- I live on the Cottonmouth River. Everyone says I’ll be bitten eventually, and it’s a ways into town, and even further to a hospital.”

 

She made as if to move towards the door, but hesitated. Sandor slumped against the sink, head scraping uncomfortably against the sloping ceiling. Thinking was getting harder. The knife in his hand seemed almost a surprise to him. More sweat was dripping into his eyes, though the officer had long since left.

 

He watched as she ducked past him, unlocking the door and exiting the room.

 

_ No. _ He wasn’t going back. He wasn’t. He lurched upright again, and moved into the main room, clutching the knife, although he left his arm by his side. But the girl wasn’t at the door, or rushing for the shiny phone on the table. She was bent over the open freezer drawer, and cringed away from him, small box in hand, as he approached.

 

He paused at the table, bracing one hand against it. She wasn’t making any sense, this girl. It didn’t seem as though she’d start now. She was approaching him cautiously with the syringe.

 

“Will you let me?”

 

The frightened tone of her voice had faded. She spoke quietly, as though she were trying to soothe a stray cat. Part of him wanted to protest her treatment, though for her sake or his pride he couldn’t say. But the pain in his ankle was spreading to his calf, a burning, cramping sensation. It was all he could do to lower himself to the chair behind him. She seemed to take that as acquiescence, and approached to crouch at his feet.

 

He scarcely felt the prick of the needle, or the touch of her cool hand against his shin. She was looking at the double punctures just above his sock, and Sandor was startled to see them. They hadn’t been so swollen before.

 

“It takes time. You have to do it slowly.”

 

Where had her fear gone? She was still talking to him in that half soothing, half coaxing voice. He looked down at her, at the little wipe she was using to clean the bite mark, while her other hand held the syringe steady. He wanted to ask her what had changed, why the hell she had suddenly decided he wasn’t a threat. But maybe she knew more than he did. Sandor knew fuck-all about snakes, but the bite didn’t look good. Maybe she just didn’t want a dead body in her kitchen.

 

“I’m Sansa by the way.” He just stared at her for a long moment, and for the first time since approaching him with the syringe, her smooth expression faltered, and she glanced down again. “I’m- I mean, I was a nurse.”

 

She was too young to be a nurse- all the ones he’d ever seen were tough, gnarled old battleaxes. Or maybe those were all they sent to deal with the likes of him.

 

“Sandor.”

 

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe the faint feeling of unreality, a mixture perhaps of the night he’d been obsessing over for months now and the venom coursing through his veins.

 

“Sandor.” She said the name slowly, as though to test it. Sandor surprised himself by liking the sound of it. It’d been a long time- he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him by his given name. Even before he’d entered the world of gray jumpsuits, shit food, and clanging doors, most everyone had called him Clegane. Or worse, if they were looking for a fight. That had used to happen often. Some idiot in a bar or from work, trying to prove he was the toughest in the room. He’d always shown them.

 

Sandor sighed, and allowed his hands to rest on in his lap. The girl- Sansa- flinched as the knife came to rest against his knee, and the moment was broken. He could see the tension seeping back in to her shoulders, could see it in the way that she pulled a little further away as she remembered who and what was sitting in her kitchen, dripping all over the floor.

 

He grimaced, looking down at her. It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highly recommend this artist to anybody and everybody. His stuff is awesome, but unfortunately he died young a long time ago, before he could make much music. This is one of his lesser-known songs.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbHTxx4zgVw


	5. A Small Request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I like screwing around with the canon story line. Might be a new hobby.

The men in the halls were stopping to bow to her, and Sansa took care to stop by some of the more prominent lords, allowing them to kiss her hand and exchange a few words. Some she knew by sight, through remnants of childhood memories. Others she knew only from the whispered comments from her mother, from where they’d stood behind the Iron Throne as Robb held his court.

 

It was still odd feeling to have all the lords and ladies in the capitol attempting to earn her favor. Some were even southerners, that Robb had pardoned after the battle. While Lady Tanda and Lord Rosby had never spoken cruelly to Sansa, they’d avoided her eye when she’d greeted them in court, and laughed along with the rest when Joffrey had played his games. She’d been disgraced then, a traitor’s daughter and their king’s plaything. Now she was their new king’s sister, and Sansa took a private pleasure in sweeping past them without a word or a nod.

 

Queen Roslin had been properly installed in the queen’s chambers since her arrival yesterday, and Sansa was eager to speak with her. She’d greeted Robb’s young wife in court the day before, but had yet to speak with her privately. 

 

When she arrived, the guards at the door announced her, and she was ushered in. The room was beautiful. She knew Robb had had it redone once he’d taken the capitol, stripping it of any remnants of Lannister gold and scarlet. It was all in grey and white now, made pretty with hints of blue and purple in the hangings and furnishings. Mother rose to greet her in a swirl of skirts, ushering Roslin down when she made as though to rise as well. The young queen smiled up at Sansa, hesitance in her eyes. Her hands, so small and white, rested on the prominent curve of her belly.

 

“Your Grace.” She made her curtsey deep, unsure as of yet what to make of Robb’s new wife, and her new queen. 

 

“Please. Roslin.” She gestured to the chair opposite her, and both Sansa and her Mother sat themselves. Mother squeezed her hand, and it was all Sansa could do to release her. They’d been spending a good deal of time together these past few months, with Robb kept busy with his many kingly duties. They had shared a chamber those first few nights, and though Sansa no longer felt that Mother would be snatched away the moment she turned her back, it was hard to think that they would soon be separated once more. Not for long, both Mother and Robb assured her. But still.

 

“I have so looked forward to meeting you.” Sansa smiled across at the woman, noting that she was no more than a year or two older than Sansa herself. Roslin, by all accounts, was scarcely more than a few months along in her pregnancy, but already her growing belly drew the eye, seeming too large for her slight frame.

 

“And I you. Sister.” Roslin took Sansa’s hand, and Sansa kept the smile painted on her face. With Mother, Robb, and all the other northmen here, it reminded her strongly of who was not. While Roslin seemed at least to be pretty, gracious, and kind, she was not Arya.

 

Mother smoothed her skirts over her legs- even in the mild weather of King’s Landing, she wore the heavy gowns she’d brought from Winterfell. “Roslin was just telling me some exciting news!” When she smiled, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and bracketing her mouth deepened. It reminded Sansa of home, of Father laughing at something his children had done.

 

“Oh? What is it?” She thought she knew- the whole court had been gossiping, speculating since their queen’s arrival.

 

“The maesters say it will be twins!” Roslin smiled widely, the grin transforming her face from pretty to something more.

 

“That’s wonderful!” Sansa squeezed at her hand, aware of the fine bones beneath her fingers. The queen was thin- so thin that it worried her a little. Roslin had been kept well out of harm’s way during the war, staying at her father’s keep with a hefty garrison. Robb had visited her there, before marching on King’s Landing with his army. His visit had borne fruit, to the North’s delight. And to Robb’s. She’d been there when he’d burst in, brandishing the letter, and she’d been there when he’d smiled at his young queen when she had announced, before all the court, that if she bore him a son, it would be named after Father.

 

“Have you thought of names? For another boy, or perhaps for a girl?” 

 

Roslin blushed, and admitted that yes, she had. She thought a splendid name for a boy might be Walder, after her own father. Sansa didn’t think much of that idea, and she suspected her mother didn’t either. Sansa had thought she might be wed to one Frey or another, but Mother had vehemently shaken her head when Sansa had asked. Robb was wed to a Frey, had a pair of Freys for squires. Arya was betrothed to a Frey, if she were ever found. That house, said Mother, needed no more elevating. Sansa would be offered to a Northman perhaps, though Mother had also spoken of brokering a deal with the Tyrells. 

 

After their King Renly’s death, they’d retreated to Highgarden with all their men and Renly’s young widow, and had yet to emerge. They hadn’t offered their support to Stannis, nor to Robb. Sansa had never met Stannis, but her brother had spoken highly of him. When Stannis had been killed in the battle for the city, Robb had taken the throne. There had been some commotion among the Florents, but it had been easily quelled. The Florents were not a large house, and half of their forces had been fighting for Renly anyway. Besides, none of Stannis’s other followers had joined in their complaints. All that was left of King Stannis’s blood was his daughter, and she was only a girl, and disfigured at that. She would inherit both Storm’s End and Dragonstone, which Robb said was more than enough for her. With her mother dead, and the girl said to be sweet and tractable, Robb had sent a delegation to bring her to Storm’s End. She would be raised there, by trusted advisors of Robb’s choosing, who would rule in her stead until she came of age. Most like she would be wed to a northern lord, to ensure the continuance of her loyalty.

 

Sansa was not all that sure she wanted to marry herself, but it was her duty. As a daughter, and now as a princess. Willas Tyrell was the heir to Highgarden and yet unwed, but Sansa thought she would rather marry a Northerner. She would be closer to home that way, home and family. Rickon would need guidance as he grew into adulthood. Roose Bolton and his bastard had taken back Winterfell for Robb, Sansa knew. Roose was recently married, but his recently legitimized son was not. Sansa hoped she might be given to a Karstark, for their loyalty in keeping Rickon safeguarded, or perhaps to an Umber. Smalljon Umber had been most attentive when he’d met Sansa, and she knew he hoped to be chosen. She did  _ not  _ like the idea of marrying a bastard, legitimized or no. It was the Umbers who had created the search part for Bran, though he’d not yet been found.

 

Shaking away her thoughts, Sansa joined the discussion of names for a little girl. Roslin favored Bethany, after her late mother. That was pretty, but she was receptive to northern names as well, ones she though Robb might like. Sansa wondered how much time Robb had spent with his young wife. She seemed very much devoted to him, though Sansa thought she couldn’t know him well. Mother had told her that their marriage was a hasty thing, done before Robb had left for war, and only Roslin because she was old Lord Walder’s favorite granddaughter. Robb had left several days hence, not seeing his bride again for months, and even then he had left nearly as quickly as he’d arrived. But for all that, Sansa thought she would be a loving wife to her brother. Whether Roslin would be a good queen remained to be seen.

 

When the torches were flickering and conversation lagging, Sansa decided that now would be the time.

 

“Have you seen Robb today? I would speak with him, if he has the time.”

 

“In the small council chamber. I imagine he should be here soon- he said he would sup with us.” Roslin smiled her shy smile again, hand stealing down to cup over the roundness of her stomach.

 

“I’ll meet him then.” Sansa said her goodbyes, though she would be seeing them shortly. Mother was frowning at her, but Sansa paid her no mind. What she wanted to ask would be better done in private, with no guards, servants, or family to carry the tale. The halls were much emptier when she emerged- most of the lords and ladies still at court were preparing for supper, as were many of the maids and servants. Sansa was not interrupted as she made her way to the council chambers.

 

Robb was alone when she came in, but for his personal guard. He looked distracted, still sitting at the head of the long table, poring over a large piece of parchment. As he looked up, Sansa could see that it was a map.

 

“Sister. Is it that time already? The guards should have alerted me.”

 

“No, no. There’s still time.” 

 

She approached to look more closely at the map. Robb followed her gaze and let out a sigh. “Lysa Arryn is still locked away in the Aerie- she hasn’t answered my summons.”

 

Sansa nodded, though she hadn’t known that. It startled her to hear- Lady Lysa was their aunt. Surely she’d be happy to bend the knee to her own blood. It was not as if there were any other contenders for the throne. 

 

“Will you send for our cousin once she does answer?” She must, in due time. With the exception of the lords of the Reach, all the other houses had. It was only a matter of time.

 

“Perhaps. From what I hear of the boy, time spent away from his mother would do him good.” Their own mother had seen him, and made no secret of her disgust at Lady Lysa’s treatment of him. The boy was sickly, true, but he was a lord. He should be learning at his age, Mother said. Not suckling at his mother’s breasts and playing with dolls.

 

“But you did not come down here to discuss the Arryns. What is it, Sansa?”

 

She looked into his eyes, the same color and shape of her own. Should she address her king, in this matter? Or her brother?

 

“Might we speak alone?” Robb looked puzzled, but motioned nodded at his guards. Once the doors had closed behind them, Sansa began.

 

“I wanted to ask about the prisoners.”

 

“Ah.” Robb grimaced. “I’ve spoken with the Martells- their representative arrived a fortnight past-” Sansa remembered when they had arrived, Prince Oberyn and his daughter. “-and they’ve discussed Myrcella at great length. There’s no need to be worried for her, Sansa. I know you got on with her alright.”

 

Sansa had hardly known the girl in truth- she was closer to Arya’s age than her own, and she had kept her distance from the royal family after Father had died, and the war had begun. She was the last of Cersei's brood now- Robb had executed Joffrey himself some time ago. Sansa had declined to attend, although she had allowed herself to be seen, standing on the battlements. She hadn’t wanted to look. She was glad Myrcella could remain in Dorne, where there were people who loved her, or at least who cared for her. There was no one else left- the night the capitol had been taken, the Lannister queen had been found dead on the Iron Throne, her youngest son in her arms. Robb carried on, pushing the thick mop of his hair back from his forehead. Sansa noticed that the crown was placed to the side of the table, almost as though he’d forgotten about it. But crowns were not so easily set aside.

 

“They’ve grown quite fond of the girl, Oberyn says. His nephew dotes on her. They’re not to be married now, of course, but there’s no reason she can’t remain in Dorne for the time being. The Dornish wish to prove themselves to me.” He let out another sigh, and Sansa could see the deep shadows under his eyes. It almost made her walk away- but she couldn’t. Not now, not when she had delayed this talk as long as she could. Robb would have to announce his intentions soon, now that the more important prisoners had been dealt with, or at least had their fates decided.

 

“I’m glad to hear of your dealing with Myrcella, but that was not who I was referring to.”

 

He glanced up at her, face unreadable, before beginning to roll up the map he’d been pouring over. “Go on.”

 

“I wish to know what is to be done with Lord Clegane.” He was a lord now, and perhaps it would do well to remind Robb of that fact. The Hound’s older brother was stripped of all lands and titles by Robb, though he continued to sweep through the riverlands, leaving destruction in his wake. It didn’t seem to matter to him that his masters were gone.

 

Robb made no answer, simply sitting back in his large chair, meeting her eyes, When had her brother become this solemn faced-man? He looked more like Father than she’d ever imagined he could, despite his Tully coloring. He’d been the boy she remembered when he’d caught her up that first time, still in his armour and covered in battle-grime. But he’d spun her around like a child, laughing as she squealed and clung to his shoulders. She couldn’t see that boy in his eyes now.

 

“I think- I know it’s not my choice. But he helped me. I’d have died but for him.” Sansa had known what was coming for her that night. When she’d had the chance to slip away from the other ladies, she’d taken it. Her room was the only place she’d thought to go. At least there was a bar on that door. The Hound had already been there, drunk and angry and demanding. But when the men had come, Ser Ilyn Payne leading them with his colorless eyes and gaunt cheeks, carrying the sword that had been her father’s, the Hound had killed them all and cursed them once they were dead. 

 

_ No one will hurt you, or else I’ll kill them.  _ He’d kept to that, and no one had. He’d stood vigil outside of her door all night, while she had huddled inside. The door had opened only once after he’d taken up his position, and it had admitted Robb, pale and frightened looking as he entered, but his visage had changed, and he’d broken out in laughter as he caught her up in his arms. Sansa had only a glimpse of Clegane through the open door, being escorted away in the midst of a dozen armed men. Robb had slung Ice over his shoulder, and bore Sansa away from the room himself. She’d closed her eyes against the sheer devastation on the winding stairway- how many men had Cersei sent, to ensure Sansa’s demise? She still didn’t know.

 

“It wasn’t just that night either.” She swallowed, and forged on, feeling too exposed under the level gaze Robb was directing at her. “There were other times. When he did what he could to help me.”

 

A cloak to cover naked flesh, a few words to reenforce her lies- yes, he’d done what he could. Any more than that, and perhaps the both of them would have been executed. Or worse- Joffrey had been an inventive king. Only he hadn’t died a king. Robb had named him Joffrey Waters for all to hear, and the former king had heard a bit of the laughter that had haunted Sansa since Father’s execution. Her lips quirked a little at the thought, and she felt braver.

 

“What do you think? What would you have me do with him?” Rob didn’t look angry at her questioning, merely curious. Calm.

 

“If I could do as I wished, I’d have him pardoned. And when I go back North, I’d bring him with me. He could serve as my sworn shield.” It was a bold proposition- though the Hound had done much to redeem himself in the eyes of the Northmen, protecting their king’s sister, it was still a high honor for the second-born son of a small Lannister bannermen. Perhaps some would even take it as a slight, that their princess should need the protection of a southerner. But it would be quite some time before Sansa left the capitol. They would have time to grow used to the idea.

 

“Why do you think he did it?”

 

“You mean- saved me?” At his nod, Sansa cast her eyes down to the clean-swept flagstones at her feet. “I don’t know. I think because he could, and he knew it. So he did. All those times, not just the night of the battle.” It was not exactly a lie- she herself wasn’t sure what he saw when he looked at her. But every word had been true. Robb watched her unblinkingly for a long moment, and Sansa met his eyes. When he finally spoke, it was almost a shock in the quiet room.

 

“I’ve already made plans for Clegane.”

 

“You have?” The breath caught in her throat. Robb couldn’t exile the man, not after all he’d done.

 

“I have.” He held her gaze for a long moment before continuing. “He’s to be pardoned.” Sansa felt the tightness across her shoulders relax, and she let out a silent breath. But Robb had not finished yet. “He has been released from the Kingsguard, though released is a strong word for it; given than he’d never taken the oath to begin with.”

 

Sansa nodded, watching him closely. The only member left of Joffrey’s Kingsguard besides the Hound was Ser Balon Swann, and he’d agreed to serve under Robb. She’d been wondering who his others would be, with three dead, one fled, and Jaime Lannister summarily executed. “He’s asked leave to join the party hunting down his brother. I’ve granted his request. He’s to go with Prince Oberyn and the Dornishmen- they’re to travel with Uncle Edmure and the Tully forces back to the Riverlands, and deal with this madman once and for all. They will be leaving on the morrow. I’ll be announcing it in the morning.”

 

Robb seemed to have said his piece, but he did not rise from his chair. Sansa swallowed, hard. “And- after?”

 

“I’ll consider your request. If I find it satisfactory, I will ask Cleagne myself.”

 

“Thank you.” She said it quietly. Then Robb stood, scraping his chair back against the stone floor, and the moment was broken. He offered Sansa his arm, smiling at her, and though he’d settled his crown back atop his head, a light had flickered back on in his eyes. Sansa couldn’t help smiling back at him as she slipped her arm through his.

 

“To supper then?”

 

“Yes, your Grace.” Sansa let a note of teasing enter her voice, and Robb chuckled beside her.

 

“Come, or Mother will be angry.”

  
  


\--------

  
  


The cool breeze blew at the skirts of Sansa’s gown, and though she’d dressed for the weather she couldn't help but shiver. The whole court had emerged to see her off, her and all those that would be traveling with her. Robb kissed both of her cheeks, and Mother followed suit. They’d already said their proper goodbyes inside the Red Keep, in the warm quiet room where Roslin lay with her babes. It had been a hard birthing, but she was recovering. She smiled now, however wanly, when little Eddard or Bethany were laid on her breast. The girl had cried when Sansa had made her goodbyes, and Sansa had swallowed back tears herself. She would miss Rosline- she’d become a sister in truth these past months. But if she was to leave, now would be the time. Winter was coming, and struggling through deep snow did not make for easy traveling.

 

To every side, the lords accompanying Sansa north were swinging up into the saddle, and Sansa suppressed a smile as she saw the Smalljon trying to catch her eye. Really, she wouldn't mind so much if Robb chose him to be her bridegroom. He’d taken to bringing her lemoncakes and flowers, and he’d begged a dance from her at the farewell celebration the night before. For all his size and the wildness of his hair and beard, he been sweet with her.

 

But there would be time enough to smile at him in the months to come. Her eyes sought her family now. Robb looked tall and grim, a king of winter in truth. Mother was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, though Sansa knew their separation would be short lived. Mother would be sailing to join her at Winterfell once Robb had formed his counsel properly, and once the babes grew a little older.

 

Turning from her family, Sansa could see the throng lining the streets beyond the gate. The smallfolk were crowded together, sitting on roofs, cheering and shouting. Princess Sansa, they called her. She still wasn't used to the title, and it gave her pause now. They might cry out her name, and toss flowers to the street, but she’d seen how their ‘love’ could turn foul. How the smiles could turn to sneers, how the reaching hands could claw at her, trying to pull her from the saddle-

 

Sansa smiled, waving, and the cheering grew all the lounder. She felt faint, lightheaded. There were so many of them. It was not a long ride- through the city, and out the front gate. There was a wheelhouse awaiting her there, along with the rest of the men escorting her home. It wasn’t that far.

 

She jumped as the large hands grasped her, lifting her into the saddle as though she weighed nothing. Settling herself appropriately, Sansa grasped her reigns. 

 

“Thank you, my Lord.”

 

Clegane looked as though he would sneer at her, but he didn’t. She knew he liked the title of lord no more than he’d wanted to be a ser. But it was his by right, though he might never return to his lands. And here, at least, she would address him as was proper. Sansa turned to wave once more at Robb and Mother, and the whole of the court waved her off along with them. Then she was out of the courtyard, and riding through the streets lined with guards. Sansa spurred her horse to a trot, smiling at the smallfolk, a smile that felt only a little too tight. 

 

He was riding close behind her, and it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one had very little actual Sansa/Sandor interaction, but I like the idea of different ways of bringing them together. Sometimes the point of writing is the bringing part, sometimes the together part. And GOT is so freaking complicated with all the different political stuff, I got kind of caught up in that this time around.
> 
> Couldn't find a way to incorporate it, but in my head, Littlefinger ran off to the Vale, Varys across the sea, and unfortunately our favorite Lannisters Tywin and Tyrion are dead. Kevin Lannister is running Casterly Rock, though he won't be Robb's Warden of the East. See? I can't stop.


	6. A Good Girl

“So, how long will we be here?”

 

Sansa strove to keep her voice flat. Disinterested. Much like the Hound.

 

“Until they call and have me move you.”

 

The Hound was sitting in the big wooden chair by the table, hands moving methodically over his weapons. Sansa wrinkled her nose at the top of his head, bowed over his work. Surely they were well-oiled by now. He’d been doing that for hours.

 

Sansa sat on the edge of the armchair, wondering what would happen if she got to her feet, walked into the kitchen. Put a hand on the door. Most likely he would bind her. She pressed her knees together, resting her clasped hands on one knee. She’d never been in the Hound’s apartment before. It was better kept than she’d expected for a man living on his own, if small and rather shabby.

 

She pursed her lips, studying the man sitting before her. He’d looked fearsome to her as a girl, and she supposed he still did, in some small way. The scars were still there, and the tattoos. He was as rough with his words as ever he had been. But she was a woman now. And he was a man, made like all the rest.

 

Better than some.

 

Sansa leaned forward a little, trying to see his face a little better. He had always been able to wear a mask well, but it couldn't hurt to try.

 

“Stop that.”

 

She didn’t lean back. She was aware that the angle had the neck of her shirt hanging low. He wasn’t looking, not directly.

 

“What’s happened.”

 

That mouth twisted under his thick mustache. She’d preferred him clean shaven.

 

“You know some of it.”

 

“But not enough.” She sat back, lifting her legs to curl them up beside her, and finally he looked at her. His face was as unreadable as ever, but she looked it over nonetheless. Smooth brow, carefully blank eyes, and the lower portion of his face obscured with a thick tangle of hair. His mouth gave him away sometimes, but it was still now.

 

The Hound set aside his weapons, reassembled, and looked her in the eye. It was these looks that had set him apart from the rest these past few years. Joffrey stared at her breasts, when he looked at her at all. Or her face on the rare occasion he felt like playing the gallant. Cersei looked her over carefully when she walked by, checking, Sansa was sure, for any obvious bruising. And Petyr- well, Sansa was half sure his searching looks were for the daughter of a dead woman, trying to find his Cat behind Sansa’s eyes. All the others looked right through her. Except for him.

 

“Tell me what you know.” His voice was even. Measured.

 

Sansa drew her braid over her shoulder, twisting the end around her finger. “I know Robb is in the city with the Wolves. I know you were sent here to hide with me, make sure he doesn’t get to me.”

 

He kept his eyes on her own. Sansa felt them begin to water.

 

“There's more.”

 

They said he was like a dog with the truth. Joffrey had liked to tell her what he’d been doing for the family, particularly if they’d caught a northman. Sometimes, he’d had the Hound tell her himself. He’d always done so in a calm, dispassionate tone, as though discussing an evening’s shopping. He’d never looked at her while he spoke. It had made Sansa cry at first, to hear of a human life snuffed so brutally, after endless hours of torment. But she didn’t anymore. Her tears would not revive the dead, and she would not give them to Joffrey. He liked them far too much.

 

The Hound had told her once, one of the few times she’d encountered him off duty, and the only time she’d seen him in his cups, that there was no sweeter sound than the scream of a dying man.

 

“It’s a sound they give only to you. Death-” He’d laughed, a coarse sound that had made Sansa jump, straining against the hand clamped around her elbow, “Death is sweet. When they know it’s coming- nothing like it.”

 

“Not even a woman?” She’d grown bold by then. Petyr had shown her what she could be, if only she tried. Watching a man fall apart beneath you, promise his life to yours- _that_ was something. Of course, Petyr was dead now. A bullet from the Iron Bank. Too many promises he’d failed to keep- the ones he’d made to Sansa numbered among them.

 

He’d looked at her then, a sweeping, searching, look. She’d seen the heat in his eyes, and Sansa had known. She’d suspected before, but the Hound was a hard man to read. He hadn’t answered, merely yanked her along the hallway to her suite, pulling her near off her feet before depositing her inside.

 

She’d never seen him so open, before or since. Drink made a man talk, she’d learned that too. But he wouldn’t drink tonight. He never did when he was on the job, or he never would’ve gotten as good as he’d become. Drink also made a man sloppy.

 

“I know what I heard.” Sansa held her face straight and stiff. They’re all liars, and all better than you. He’d told her that once. Was it still true?

 

“And what was that?” He still hadn’t blinked. It was making her a bit uneasy- he’d never really focused on her like this, like she was work.

 

“What Cersei said. That no matter who wins, Robb won’t be getting me back.”

 

She lifted her chin to stare right back at him, jaw set. His face did not change. “So?”

 

“So.”

 

Sansa felt the smooth surface of her face crack as her brow furrowed. “Would you do it?” There were many weapons he carried. Guns, and more than a few knives. Wickedly sharp by the look of them. Perhaps one was for her.

 

“I do what I’m told, girl.”

 

She smiled a little at that. “So do I.”

 

A good girl and a good dog. Only, good girls didn’t fuck their boyfriend’s accountant into promising an escape. And a daughter of the Stark pack could never be a good girl anyway, regardless of what Mother had tried to instill upon her as a girl. She’d never worn the vest, never ridden one of the bikes which had so frightened her as a child, but she was a Stark to the bone. It had taken some time to realize that.

 

Sansa ran a finger across the collar of her shirt, pausing as she hit that first button. “Is my brother really here? With the Wolves? Or is it a trick, like he pulled on Tywin?”

 

“No trick. He’s here.” He was watching her now, watching that finger.

 

“And- if they win? The Lions, I mean, what does that mean for me?”

 

The Hound’s eyes rose to meet Sansa’s once more.

 

“Nothing pleasant, I’m sure.” She had answered her own question. There was no way to be delicate about this. There wasn’t enough time. “Do you know what I think?”

 

He didn’t respond.

 

“I think you don’t want to kill me. And I think you’re tired of them using you like that.”

 

“What do you fucking know?” His voice was soft. Dangerous.

 

Sansa licked her lips. “I know what I see. You’re like a whore to them,” he got to his feet, rising slowly, and Sansa tried to keep her voice steady, “they just use you, take what they need from you and throw you aside. You’re the best they’ve got, and they stick you in this shitty little apartment and call you when they need their _dog.”_

 

He was in front of her now, and her neck was craned back to see him. He towered over her, and she tried hard not to look at his hands.

 

“My brother wouldn’t be like that. He treats his men properly.” The Hound was closer than she liked. She could smell the leather of his vest, smell the sweat-grease-blood odor that seemed to coat him from head to heels. Robb had never liked the Hound, not even when the Wolves and the Lions had been partnered up under Ned and Robert. But he respected skill, and he had need of men like the Hound.

 

Sansa swallowed involuntarily, and held back a wince. With a rustle of clothing, he had crouched down to her level. He was much too close. But he would be closer still before long, if all went as she planned. She slipped that top button out of its little hole, watching as the man before her glanced down to watch. His eyes were narrowed as they came back up.

 

“You think you can just flash your tits, and you’ll lead me around by the cock?”

 

His voice was still soft, and Sansa tried hard to control her breathing. He was a big man, much bigger than Joffrey or Petyr.

 

“I don’t tease.” She popped open another button, but he didn’t look down.

 

“Why.”

 

Sansa glanced down, reaching forward. She meant to caress his chest perhaps, or drag her fingers lower if she felt bold enough. But his hand caught her chin then, pulling it upwards, and her hand froze before she’d moved more than a few inches.

 

His breath was hot on her face, and she met his gaze once more, heart pounding in her chest. The steel gray of his eyes could be hiding anything.

 

“Because-” She cleared her throat, all too aware of the fingers pressed against the fast thrumming in her throat. “Because I want out. I’m done with it. All of it. And I think maybe you are too.” It sounded small and childish to her ears, wavering towards the end, but she meant it. More than anything she’d said in years.

 

It made her feel even smaller beside his bulk, and she blinked angrily, keeping the flow of tears held back. “Or does the dog enjoy being fed scraps from the table, when he could have his own seat?”

 

She thought at first she’d gone too far. His hand had tightened on her chin, tilting her head at a painful angle. She did not even have enough time to close her eyes, to pray for a painless end, before his hand released her. She eased her head back down, ignoring the painful ache in her spine. Before she lost her courage, she reached out, took his hand, and pulled it to the neck of her shirt. She could feel the roughness of his skin as he curled his fingers inside, brushing over the inner curves of her breasts. It sent a thrill down her spine to feel his skin on hers.

 

Large he might be, and a killer, but he was still a man.

 

And if nothing else, she knew the whores came unharmed from his bed.

 

It stiffened her spine some, put a small smile on her lips. This, she knew.

 

The ice in his eyes was cracking, and she could see some small slivers of emotion. Anger, desire, yes, and- consideration?

 

Sansa leaned back against the cushioned back of the armchair, letting her smile spread slightly.

 

“So. What will it be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one just popped into my head today, completely bypassing a few other ideas I'd been working on. I do love open endings. Keeps things more fun!


	7. An Opportunity

The snow was coming down thickly, but softly. Sansa’s breath was labored, though the road was quite flat. It was sticking quickly to the ground, and when she’d run out of sidewalk, trudging along became even more difficult

 

Just a quick walk to the store. The storm wasn’t  _ that  _ close, she’d reasoned, and she’d needed her stupid ice cream.  _ Ice cream _ , on a day like today. As though the wine hadn’t been enough.

 

Sansa rolled her eyes, and shifted the plastic bags in her hand. They dug into her flesh even through the gloves. She cast her eyes forwards, trying to ignore the lightheadedness that plagued her. The world was all a mix of gray and white, swirling snow and flat, dull sky. It was pretty, but it would be all the prettier when she could see it from her living room window. Sansa moved all of the bags to her right hand, so that she could warm her left. It was colder than she’d thought, and she hadn’t really dressed for it. A too-light coat, but no hat or scarf. Her feet were slowly numbing as she walked.

 

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

 

A light pierced the fog of snow, illuminating a thick swath of fine flakes and Sansa quickly moved to the side of the road, to let the car pass. She looked over interestedly as it came slowly up beside her. A sturdy SUV, with thick tires. If they couldn’t fix her car after all, perhaps she would get one like that.

 

The window rolled down then, and a head poked out, long hair partially obscuring the man’s face.

 

“You alright?”

 

“Y-yes.” Sansa firmed her jaw, trying to to let her shivering enter her speech. “I’m not far from home.”

 

“Cherry Court?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Wait- should she have said that? You weren't supposed to talk to strangers in cars, let alone tell them where you lived. Ms. Mordane had always said so. Sansa felt her lips quirk up at the thought. 

 

“I’m one street over. I can drive you, if you want.”

 

“No thanks.” Though the car did look tempting. And warm.

 

“Come on, girl. It’s slow enough driving, you’ll be up to your knees before long if you walk it.”

 

Sansa looked over at him, trying to push her wet, heavy hair out of the way with her free hand. It was hard to get a good look at the man through the swirls of snow.

 

“You’re my neighbor?”

 

“Yes.” The rough voice sounded irritated now, likely by the snow melting on his face and arm. “Does that make it safe?”

 

There was a sardonic lilt to his voice, but she nodded anyway. “Maybe.”

 

Sansa circled the car, slipping only a little, and the man inside opened the passenger side for her. She left the door open at first, perching on the edge of the seat with the bags in her lap. The seat was dry under her, the air blissfully warm about her. But the heat was slipping away fast with the door open.

 

“Close that, will you?”

 

“Wait-”

 

Sansa pushed the hair out of her eyes, wincing as a clump of snow slid down into her collar. Groping for her phone in the jacket pocket, she turned towards him, mouth open. But for a moment, she forgot what she’d been about to ask.

 

He was a large man, but she would have guessed that from what little she’d seen of him. She’d expected someone rough-looking, from the voice and the hair. But not this. She closed her mouth with a snap, realizing that she was staring. He was looking right back at her, jaw set, a resigned sort of look to his face.

 

It came out then, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. The look of expectant resignation changed to outright shock, and not a little bit of anger as more giggles escaped her.

 

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

 

“You- you look-” Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, little tears escaping from the corners as she shook with mirth. “All you need is a van! A white van!”

 

“What?” 

 

She opened her streaming eyes and saw that the anger had changed to utter confusion. He was gripping the wheel with both hands now, turned almost fully to face her. He seemed to have forgotten that he was stopped in the middle of the road.

 

“The- the scars, and the hair, and picking me up- it’s like the start of a bad porno.” Sansa doubled over, breathless. “Or like one of those lifetime movies to warn kids. All you need is the van!”

 

He stared at her, crinkle between his heavy brows deepening as she cackled all the more. It was rude, but she couldn’t stop. The wine- she’d had too much before. It was still waiting for her at home, half a bottle of the light sweetness.

 

“S-sorry.” Sansa wiped tears from her cheeks, trying to bite down her smile. But it wouldn't quite go down. The corners of her mouth kept perking up, despite her best efforts.

 

He was still looking at her. The snow melting in his hair.

 

“Are you getting out?”

 

“No.”

 

Sansa shut the door behind her, but he didn’t begin to drive.

 

“Even if I look like a creep?”

 

She shrugged, buckling on the seatbelt. “A real creep wouldn't look like one. It's always the ones you least expect.”

 

The man rolled the window closed, air turning noticeably warmer as the snow and the wind was shut out. “You know something about that, do you?”

 

“A few things.” Sansa swiveled in her seat, bringing her phone up as she remembered. “Do you mind if I take your picture? To send to my sister.”

 

“I thought you’d decided I wasn’t a creep.” But he nodded anyway as they began to inch down the snow-covered road.

 

“You never know.” Sansa snapped the picture, sending it to Arya with a brief explanation. She didn’t think Arya would see it right away. She tended to get a bit distracted when she was at Gendry’s, and Sansa didn’t expect her home until morning at the earliest.

 

For all that the man had claimed it would take quite some time even driving, the trip seemed to pass quickly to Sansa. She had contented herself with watching the wipers struggle to clear each new coating of snow, not attempting to make conversation. She did sneak a few glances towards the man beside her, the thought gnawing away at the back of her mind.

 

He was decidedly not what Sansa had always thought she liked. Might be a good thing. Something new; different.

 

“Which one is you?”

 

“Hmm?” Sansa swiveled to face him full on, jolted out of her thoughts.

 

“The houses. Which one is you?” His fingers were tapping on the wheel, although nervous or impatient, Sansa couldn’t guess.

 

“Oh. The red one. With the lights on.”

 

They crunched into her driveway, and the man put the car into park, eyeing the house before them.

 

“Big house for one woman.”

 

“Oh, it’s not just me. My sister lives here too.” Sansa grimaced. She had  _ not _ wanted to think about that. The house was  _ so _ big now, with just she and Arya. Rickon’s wild presence had filled the rooms with sound and activity, and his absence still stung, for all that she’d been grateful when Robb had made his offer.

 

“My brothers used to live here too.” The man made a noncommittal noise, either encouragement or finality, but Sansa carried on nonetheless. “But Robb got married, and he brought my youngest brother to live with him. And Bran went to college…” She trailed off.

 

“Why are you telling me this. You don't even know me.” His tone was a bit accusatory, as though he were more angry on her behalf than at her.

 

“I shouldn’t be. Look, do you want to come in?” This was what she’d  _ meant _ to say. “I could make hot chocolate. Or there’s wine, if you like. Just me here tonight. I’ve always wanted to be in a bad porno.” Sansa gave what she hoped was an alluring smile, although the wet hair and lack of makeup couldn’t be helping. 

 

She hadn't expected to have an opportunity just dropped in her lap like this. It had been a long time. One couldn’t bring home men with a teenage boy in the house.

 

He just looked at her.

 

“Come on.” Sansa bit her lip, trying not to lose confidence at his lack of a reply. “I don’t usually do this.”

 

Not strictly true. She did usually bother to get a name first, at least. Dating in college had been difficult. Dating in law school was nearly impossible. And after mom and dad-

 

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Sansa opened the car door, not looking at the man. It had been stupid to say anything. The wine, that was it. She’d had too much wine. He could be married for all she knew; could have kids.

 

She stomped through the snow, slipping and nearly falling as she circled the car to reach her front door.

 

“Hey-” 

 

Sansa turned to see him opening the car door, swinging his legs out. Long legs. He must be even taller than she’s thought. The curl of heat rose in her belly, and she walked over carefully, letting a smile slip onto her face again, but before she could open her mouth, he had pulled out a pen, pulling her grocery-free hand towards him, palm up.

 

“Here.” He was scribbling something onto her palm, and she squinted down to see.

 

“If you haven't changed your mind in the morning. Call me.”

 

“Why?” Sansa bit her lip to avoid a pout. Arya always said she looked stupid when she did that.

 

“Because the snow’s getting deeper. And I have things to do. And you’re drunk.”

 

“Not that drunk.”

 

But he had already pulled away, stepping back into his nice car. Likely getting snow all over the inside of it, shed from his boots. Sansa waved as he pulled out slowly. She shook her head, turning back towards the house. Strange man.

 

Uncurling her sweaty hand, rapidly cooling in the cold air, Sansa squinted down at it.

 

Sandor was a good name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got stuck in the snow myself recently, walking home after my car got stuck. This helped to keep me entertained during :)


	8. Lady Lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This guy took a while. Everything I've been writing has been taking a while. For some reason, the only place I've been able to write recently is my work, on break and in the bathroom.
> 
> Hey, I'm a paid writer now! Awesome.

The little bird was sitting still, still and quiet. Her handmaiden, a slim dark-eyed wench no more than a handful of years older than her lady, was looking up at him suspiciously. No common guard should dare to look so frankly at such a highborn woman. But the Hound was no common guard. She should know that just to look at him. He’d been one of the King’s seven until a few moons back, and sword shield to the boy when he’d been Crown Prince. The whole keep had heard of his disgrace at the Battle of the Blackwater, and the King himself had seen fit to hammer the point home when he had stripped him of his cloak before the whole court. There had been mocking, before and after, but few dared to do so in his presence. A coward before fire he might be, but his size and the strength of his arm had not diminished.

 

The lords, secure in their heritage, might make sly note of Lady Sansa's new dog, as they called him, but the men-at-arms knew better. They had no high birth to keep them from a beating in the training yard.

 

Even Trant had needed a reminder of that. He had never been one to hold back his gloating. It was as though the man had forgotten that the Kingsguard trained with the common guardsmen as well as with each other.

 

Joffrey had been walking by, with Cersei, the Tyrell girl, and all the rest, colorful as peacocks in their flimsy silks. The boy had crowed with laughter at Trant lying bruised on the ground, white cloak stained with the dust of the courtyard.

 

“A dog without a cloak is still a dog, and this one has a fierce bite! You would do well to remember that.”

 

Trant had scrambled to his feet, face a blotchy red at being seen in such a state by his King. He had shot a glare at the Hound, but with the King laughing, the others did as well, all striving to match the boy in their merriment. Trant had stormed off, favoring his left leg.

 

Cersai alone had not laughed long, the false smile falling from her lips, eyes following Trant as he made his hasty exit. She had looked at him then, a measuring look in her eye. Perhaps it had been she who had ensured that he be bound to her brother, who would be going North with the Stark girl once the war with the King in the North had been won. The Kingsguard were supposed to be the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. To have tales spread of a brother so thoroughly vanquished by a disgraced dog could only shame and discredit the King.

 

He could admit to himself that the thought had crossed his own mind as he'd knocked Trant into the dirt. The King was a Lannister, and the Hound had always been a loyal man if nothing else, but he found he had lost his taste for the Lannisters entirely after the battle.

 

He had thought to leave that night, but had drank instead. Far too much, even for him. 

 

She was supposed to be his punishment; her and her lordly husband. Or perhaps he theirs.

 

But the only punishment that had come with his servitude to the Imp and his young wife had been sheer boredom. The little lion of Lannister did not trust him; and the Hound could not find it in him to blame the man. He’d been a servant to their pissant of a King for years, and to the Queen before that. The whole bloody world knew that Tyrion was the lowest of his kin; and anyone with eyes could see that the Queen and her son fought to keep him there just as hard as he struggled to rise.

 

So the dwarf smiled at the Hound with hooded eyes, made his little japes, and chose to entrust his confidences to the sellsword turned hedge-knight that was forever meeting with him. While the Hound, one of the most renowned killers in the Seven Kingdoms, was left to trail after his wife as she walked in the gardens, or visited with the other twittering ladies of the court.

 

Wife. As though the Imp knew what to do with her.

 

He could see that the dwarf had an odd sort of caring for his young bride. He supped with her near every night, trying to break the strained silence with little complements, tidbits of information about the goings-on of the court. The girl listened politely to her husband, but responded no more than her unbreakable courtesy required. She picked at her food, relaxing only when the Imp took his leave of her, fleeing back to his books and his sellswords and his whores. It had taken a good while for her to relax around  _ him _ , but in time she seemed to grow accustomed to his presence, allowing her eyes to slide over him as though she did not see him at all. Sometimes she would speak to him, announcing that she would be walking in the godswood, where she wanted no followers. She could spend hours in there, allowing the Hound to fill his time with drink, or to make his way into the yard with the men, swinging his sword at whoever would dare to spar with him until sweat ran down into his eyes.

 

What had she been praying for in there? Her brother to save her from her southern husband perhaps, or maybe she wasn't praying at all. Just walking, away from prying eyes and loose tongues.

 

The thought had crossed his mind that she was meeting a lover, but he had quickly discounted the idea. She always returned from her walks as cool and unruffled as she had begun them. She did not have the look of a woman who had just left the arms of some man she desired. Dogs could smell such things, and she did not reek of it.

 

He couldn’t decide if it was a kindness or not that Lannister chose to leave her so unspoiled. The whole of the Red Keep suspected, but he knew. It had been he who had stood guard outside the door on their wedding night, as he had been the King's “gift” to the pair of them. He had seen the sheets the maids had bundled from the room the next morning, and they'd been far too clean, with no telltale spots of red against the snowy white.

 

Besides, Tyrion had proclaimed Sansa’s last handmaiden to be a spy sent by his sister, and replaced her with a girl too bold by far, who couldn’t so much as curtsey. The little bird might swallow whatever tale her husband wove, though it might be partly true for all the Hound knew, but the pretty girl who brushed hair and scrubbed her back in the mornings was no more a maid than the Hound was a septon.

 

If Lannister so chose to eschew his wife’s bed, he thought the least the man could do was to take the girl at least once. Take her properly as a wife, bring her under his protection in truth. If she welped him a child or two, she might even be allowed to make her home in the North sooner rather than later, leaving behind her tormentors to raise the new heirs of house Lannister and Stark.

 

Although she was unlikely to find any joy in that, not after the news which had arrived.

 

She’d had so little hope in her even before the murder of her family, brutally snuffing out house Stark but for her. Lannister had tried to comfort her, taking her by the hand and telling her that they might go North soon, to Winterfell. As though it would comfort her at all, the Hound though, to be in the burnt ruin of her childhood home, surrounded by the ghosts of her family.

 

She was too thin. Too thin by far. Did grief require sustenance to maintain?

 

The bones in her face had always been prominent in a delicate sort of way, but she looked near gaunt today. She had been fitted with new gowns as befit her status as a Lady of house Lannister, but they looked to have grown slack across her bosom and at her waist.

 

The maid-who-was-not-a-maid was attempting to tempt her with plate after plate of delicacies, from the lemoncakes the girl favored to the soft fruits from Highgarden, sent by the King’s new betrothed. The Tyrell girl fared far better with Joffrey than Sansa had. She had her knightley brothers about her, and all the power of Highgarden to back her if she was mistreated. Joffrey was many things, but blind was not one of them. 

 

Lady Margaery had brought some small joy to Sansa’s days since her arrival in the capitol, folding her easily into the flock of ladies that seemed to accompany her everywhere. It had been hell standing there against the wall with the other guardsmen and listening to the endless talk of one knight over another, and more songs from that enormous fool than the Hound had ever cared to hear. It had made the little bird laugh, which was not bad to see, crumbs spraying from her lips before she clapped a hand over her mouth, red-cheeked and abashed.

 

The fool had done nothing to make her smile these past few days, though the man had done his level best when he had come along with Margaery and the stream of Tyrell ladies as they had heard the news. They had not stayed long. It would not do for the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to show much sympathy for traitors.

 

“Look, it’s ripe and juicy,” The Imp’s whore had sliced one of the peaches, and was holding a piece up to her mistress, almost close enough to touch the girl’s lips. “Just one bite? Please?”

 

There was a slight edge to her voice. They had been at this for hours, and Sansa had not spoken a word, nor eaten a morsel. Although the Hound suspected that the dark-haired girl had grown somewhat weary at Sansa’s stonefaced refusal to touch the food, he thought he could sense a worry about her too. It almost made him like her a little.

 

“No fruit then?” Sansa made no reply.

 

“Will you-” The girl sank to her knees by the stone-topped table, laden with all the denied food. She looked defeated. She had, as far as he had seen, offered her lady everything here, and there had been a veritable parade of servants sent by the Imp to bring only the choicest foods, hoping to tempt his wife.

 

“There’s pigeon pie, in the kitchen. The cooks were just starting it a few hours back, it’ll be hot. You love pigeon pie, you ate nearly half yourself when you and m’lord had some last week.”

 

Sansa did not even look at her. She sat, silent in her little chair, wrought iron with stuffed-silk cushions. Her feet were appropriately tucked beneath her, skirts gathered gracefully around her ankles. Even thin, and as grief-stricken as he’d ever seen her, she made a lovely sight against the clear blue of the sky opening behind her, seeming to blend seamlessly with the sea.

 

The handmaid rose to her feet, glancing once more up at him.

 

“She'll eat the pie.” The Hound very much doubted that, but he did not voice his opinion. “Stay with her?”

 

He nodded, and she hurried off. It was not as though he had anywhere else to go. This was meant to be his life now, watching the Stark girl as she ate and walked and rode. Or as she withered away, as she was doing now.

 

Her hair rippled as the light breeze caught at a few strands. She had taken to wearing it in northern styles of late, in a loose braid or loose, with only a few handfuls gathered back from her face.

 

As the sound of the whore's footsteps faded away, Sansa rose to her feet, eyes downcast. She made a perfunctory motion at him with her hand, the unspoken 'stay’ made obvious by her white palm.

 

She had not even left the stone patio before she realized that he was following her. She turned to face him, and her eyes were full of tears.

 

“Please?” The whispered word was the first he'd heard her speak in days, but to her husband. And those had only been a parade of yes and no.

 

“No.”

 

Her face threatened to crumple then, and she turned sharply away to hide it from him. She did not resume her walk. Just stood there, thin shoulders trembling as she kept her back to him.

 

Voices and laughter floated to his ears then, and by the girl's stiffening, she heard them as well. She hurried back to her seat, small hands fisted tightly and almost hidden among her skirts.

 

The voices came and went, although not very close. No doubt the ladies, whomever they might be, had no desire to share a meal with a traitor's daughter, and the Imp's wife besides. Sansa stared at the food before her, eyes dull and uninterested. The Hound looked down at her, taking a few steps to close the distance between himself and the table. She did not glance up as he approached. 

 

She looked a pitiful thing, more child than woman today, though it did not diminished her beauty. In a way, it enhanced it. Though she looked wont to let it kill her, the girl wore grief well. She twitched when he pushed one of the plates towards her, the metal of it scraping over the carved stone of the table. It was the denied fruit, still sliced and waiting.

 

The girl spoke again, her voice scarcely audible even in the quiet of the gardens. “Can't you just-”

 

“Watch you starve yourself?”

 

She raised her eyes to meet his own, and he was struck with the color of them. Stark she might be, but she did not have to look of the North, of her father. Lord Eddard and his other daughter, the girl who's wolf had bitten Joffrey, both had shown the long solemn faces and the dark hair and eyes of the old lords of winter. Sansa looked to be made more for summer than the biting cold of Winterfell, but she was diminishing here all the same. Like a statue of ice melting in the heat. 

 

Those eyes seemed to be asking why he cared, and to be only feebly interested in the answer.

 

It was the first time she'd looked him in the eye since the night of her wedding, when she'd shot a glance at him, eyes wide and fearful as she had followed her new husband into the bedchamber. Fearful of the Hound or of her marriage bed he did not know.

 

He cast a quick glance around, although he did not really need to. No one was near. They said that the gardens were safest to talk in, with no place to hide prying ears among the flow hedges and flowers. But in the Red Keep, nowhere was quite safe.

 

“You should eat.”

 

“Why?” She still had her gaze fixed on him, eyes unwavering from his own as he stood by the table. She looked smaller this close, and even more fragile. Her eyes were limpid blue pools that seemed to leech away what little color she had left in her cheeks.

 

“Because they're dead. You're not. Do you think acting like it will make anything better?”

 

She actually laughed at that, a small broken sound, her eyes unblinking as she looked up at him. Perhaps in her grief she had finally lost her fear of him.

 

“What could possibly make this better.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “My brother-” 

 

She trailed off, but he knew what they're done. Men liked to talk, soldiers more than most. Men who never even met Robb Stark, let alone fought him had been cheering and drinking at the news of his death. The King in the North, butchered at a wedding and his body defaced and paraded about afterwards.

 

“There's always something. Might not be what you wanted, is all.”

 

She opened her eyes, blinking up at him. He looked steadily back at her. He would not share his thought here, nor anywhere in King's Landing, where they might be heard. Least of all with a girl who seemed to trust the Tyrells, of all people. He pushed the plate closer again, and her gaze fell to it, to the brightly-colored fruit atop it.

 

“Eat.”

 

The girl ate. Small nibbling bites, but likely she could handle naught else after five days with nothing but water.

 

She must have had some thought of her own, or perhaps he had simply startled her into feeling her own hunger. She could not read his thoughts. He wondered idly what she would say if she could.

 

He had been making his way to her chambers the night the Blackwater had burned, he remembered that much. It was likely fortunate that he had not reached his goal. Being found passed out from drink in some antechamber or another had been bad enough. In the quarters of the King's at-the-time betrothed? He would have been beheaded if he was lucky. Like as not the King would have thought up something special for his old dog.

 

He still didn't know what he would have done had he found her there. Perhaps that was also a good thing.

 

The North would follow Eddard Stark's child if she were wed to a Lannister, the Hound knew that Tywin had judged that right. She was the last of the Starks, and the northern lords were loyal to a fault. But free of the Lannisters, and a maiden at that? There would be no stopping them from giving the girl her revenge. He would have to give some thought on where he would take her, for whichever Lord he carried her to would marry her to a son if he could not take her to wife himself. The northmen who wed her would be Warden of the North at worst, and a King at best. It would be a risky thing, but the northern lords had all gone traitor for her brother, and would likely want revenge for his murder. If making the girl a Queen would do that, then they would.

 

He’d had his fill of the capitol, of the bloody Lannisters and of southern Kings. Perhaps a the North would suit him better.

 

Or maybe he would take the girl across the sea, to Lys or to the Summer Isles. There was no one to claim her there, if they were careful. There would be work aplenty for a man like him, merchants and lords to kill for. The girl would be free to disappear, marry some merchant or self made lordling, like in one of her songs. 

 

She might even consent to marry  _ him _ , if he asked.

 

He snorted at the thought of it, and the girl looked up, lips slick with the juice from the fruit. A drop threatened to fall from her chin, and she hastily patted at it with a napkin. She looked confused, and her eyes were still watery with tears, but the dead look had fled them.

 

Wedding the girl himself would be beyond folly. With enough time and the shedding of her name, Sansa could fade away, become just another pretty girl among many. But you could not erase scars.

 

Besides. She would have no more taste for him than she had for her Lannister husband, and he did not seek out rape. The Hound retreated to the edge of the patio, where the guardsmen were supposed to stand, with no thought of spiriting away the lady they served, let alone wedding and bedding her.

 

Winterfell. She would want to go to Winterfell. Perhaps even to Stannis, who would welcome the key to the North after his sound defeat. He would take her to the man if she asked. A dog did as the mistress commanded after all. It would take some planning, but with the King's wedding to the Tyrell girl approaching, the time might come soon. He couldn't risk telling her, but he would not need to, he thought. The revelers would drink the night away, but Sansa would likely excuse herself after the bedding, when the wine flowed even more heavily, and the jokes became more ribald. She would prove willing enough once she saw her ties to the Lannisters falling away.

 

Not that they would ever stop hunting her. But if she died, at least she would die free, and not a starved waif of a girl married to a dwarf.

 

By the time the maid returned, bearing a steaming tray of pie, along with roasted capons and candied nuts, the plate of fruit was empty, and the girl's fingers and lips sticky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For whatever reason, I have a REALLY hard time with Sandor POV. Please, PLEASE, critique. I'm writing a few more from his perspective to try and get past the problem.


	9. Brotherly Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned. No Sansa in here at all. This teeny tiny little short is my ode to what I consider to be one of the worst pieces of dialogue in GOT history (TV show).
> 
> Will explain why I feel this way in more detail at the end of this, if anyone is interested.

He was there. Standing beside the fire-mad Queen as the procession settled on the dias. Some things had changed, he’d heard the tales from lords and smallfolk alike on the journey here. 

 

But a man knew his own brother.

 

And despite what they’d said of him, that he was no better than a walking corpse, the brother knew him too. The head had turned, and somewhere in that greathelm, eyes were looking back at him.

 

Would they still be brown? Or would they be the putrid gray of a corpse, with no whites or color to speak of?

 

He knew those eyes. They’d been the last thing he saw before the fire. He’d thought of it every night he’d been healing, hands bound so that he could not touch the wounds, could not try to sooth them. They’d been flat and bored looking, as though his brother were nothing to him. As though he were swatting a fly, he had looked slightly irritated that he must need to retaliate. Perhaps that was why the black sorcery preserving him had worked so well. There had not been much human about him to begin with.

 

He would  _ see _ this day, see what he had done to a brother that had only been frightened of him before the fire. See what he had done to himself. He had sealed his own fate that day.

 

The Dragon Queen had arrived on her namesake, and the assembled men and women were spouting pretty words, all so very courteous for people who wanted each other dead. He could do it now. Finish it. It would have been a death sentence before; with the both of them serving the Lannisters, but he was free to do as he pleased now. Sandor was not even sure he served any King anymore. He wanted to live, and he wanted his brother dead. And he was bloody tired of the fucking Lannisters.

 

One of them was talking now, the little Hand of the Queen, guarded diplomacy dripping from his lips as he addressed his siblings. Gregor still had not looked away. It would be the work of a moment to begin it. His sword would be drawn, he would meet the rabid dog the Gods had seen fit to give him as a brother, and they would dance. 

 

A hand caught him sharply by the elbow, and he looked over to see caramel-colored eyes narrowed in warning at him. Sandor realized suddenly that his hand was on the hilt of his sword, an inch or so of steel bared. Most of the assembly had not noticed, intent as they were on one another, but the ironborn sitting beside the Lannister woman had, and half the guardsmen had a hand on a weapon.

 

The dothraki beside him- he never could remember their names- released his elbow with a jerk of the wrist, eyes still fixed upon him.

 

He knew.

 

He could list all the things wrong with this. Gregor in full plate, and he unarmored. The crossbowmen who must be hidden, ready to be produced, with stinging bolts that would cut through the ineffectual layers of cloth before he could so much as blink. And all the royal cunts, dragged here just for this. Just to save all their lives.

 

He gritted his teeth, the words passing before him pounding through his head. Turning sharply on his heel, he strode away from the little group, feeling the dead man’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The voices stuttered, but did not stop, the bastard King in the North taking up the thread of the explanation with his plain words. There was a part for Sandor to play in this particular game and he would play it, and play it well. But the time would come, when there was no fragile meeting to destroy. When it would be just the two of them, as it had been that first night. He had not been alone with his brother in neigh on thirty-five years. But the day would come. If most of what had been his brother was gone, then he would destroy the cursed shell of a body, condemning the rest of him to the Stranger as well.

 

Not today. But soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Slight rant coming. 
> 
> GOT is, clearly, one of my very favorite TV shows, although to be clear, I base most of my characterizations off of the books and NOT the TV shows. Now, as we all know, they ran out of book material in season 5. Then we got season 6, which I personally consider to be one of the very best seasons of GOT. To be clear, the dialogue was not extraordinarily memorable in this season, but it felt realistic and in character.
> 
> Then comes season 7, which was so fucking full of bad dialogue and fan-lip service it made me want to barf. Maybe strange opinion. I still enjoyed it, the cinematography was beyond excellent, with some incredible battle sequences (although for me, nothing tops the Battle of the Bastards). But OH MY GOD. The dialogue in some cases was just awful to me. Again, my own opinion. Some was great (Lady Olenna's dying speech). Some, like the Hound's speech to his brother, was just cringy to me. It did not feel realistic that he would say it, would say it in the way he said it, or that ANYONE would let the Hound, one of the very best fighters in Westeros, get that close to Queen Cersei. In case you can't tell, this guy is one of my very favorite characters, and it felt like his speech was much more for the fans of the show than it was for his character or the plot.
> 
> Rant over. In my head, this is the way it happened. In a visual medium, in this case, I think a lot more could have been done with silence than they did with words.
> 
> If you hate my opinion, please tell me. I'd love a debate, or counter argument. I have no one to argue GOT with. None of my friends or family watch it, really.
> 
> Or feel free to ignore me, lol. This scene just popped back into my head, and it pissed me off enough that I decided to write this to make me feel better.


	10. Come Sail Away With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, writing that last one got me in a bit of a weird mood. Here we are.

The ship rocked beneath her, and Sansa wondered, yet again, if the white walkers and their cold, dead followers could swim. Or would if they could.

 

“The Summer Isles?” The words promised warmth and sunshine. They felt odd in her mouth, with her huddled under all the blankets they had. Three, to be exact. The thought made her want to cry again.

 

“S’what the captain said.” Clegane had snow crusted his hair and beard. The sky must have opened up again then, and Sansa was doubly glad of the little cabin, though it was cramped and they had to share it. She wouldn’t mind though. She and Clegane had been huddling together for warmth for days now, all through their frantic flight from Winterfell. Only Arya had been there too, small and fierce with her little blade.

 

The Summer Isles. Sandor sat beside her on the small bunk, pulling her blankets across his lap to share her warmth with his. There was a hard lump in her throat as she felt his leg against hers, and she suddenly felt the need to look upon his face, be sure that it really was him.

 

The snow crusting the hood of his cloak stung her cold fingers, but she pushed it back just the same. He made no move to stop her, his own eyes blank and staring. The ship swayed, and Sansa swayed with it. It seemed as though mist was rising before her eyes, though that could not be, not in here.

 

“They’re all gone.”

 

His eyes focused on her. “Aye.”

 

The simple word broke the dam within her, and she felt her face crumple, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, wet and cold though it was. He made no move to comfort her, to put his arms around her as another man might have. As Arya would have.

 

She pulled back, suddenly angry. “We should have waited.”

 

Sandor shook his head. “She wasn’t coming back.”

 

The words were were spoken plainly enough, but Sansa remembered how he had called after Arya, roaring and cursing at her to turn her horse around. Couldn’t the man find it in him to weep for her sister, one tear at least?

 

“Why? Why would she do it?” Jon, Brienne, Bran- all gone, but _Arya_ had been alive and safe and _right there._ Why would she leave them?

 

“She- she said,” The man’s voice stuttered a little, and it was enough for Sansa to press her face to his shoulder again, allow herself to be comforted by his nearness. “She said she didn’t want to leave her brother.”

 

Sansa frowned. “Bran?” They had all seen Bran fall, pulled off his horse by the dead, eyes a blank white as ravens exploded out of the nearby trees, the sound of their cries obscured by Sansa’s screams and the pounding of the terrified horse’s hooves.

 

Sandor shook his head, a shower of cold flakes settling on Sansa’s hair. “Her other brother. The bastard.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth, and closed it again, face still pressed tight against the studded leather of his tunic. Jon was surrounded, his raven had said, at Eastwatch by the Sea. He’d written of the Dragon Queen, dead in his arms, and of the her remaining fiery children running amok and uncontrolled. Jon was dead. He must be, must have been by the time the raven had reached them. They themselves had left Winterfell just before the tide of dead men had reached them. They had almost been too late.

 

“But-”

 

“Just shut up.” He had his face in his hands, although he did not pull away from her warmth. She had only seen him cry once before, but the memory was no comfort now.

 

“We should have waited.”

 

“I already said-”

 

“She might have!” Tears were streaming hot down Sansa’s face, seeming to burn her icy skin. The metal studs were digging into her cheek, growing slippery as she wept.

 

“Then we would be dead too!” Clegane was shouting now, looking down at her through angry, red-rimmed eyes. “The ship was leaving, and it was the last one there was. If we’d waited, we’d all be dead together. Is that what you want?”

 

Maybe. Maybe that would be better. But when she opened her mouth, only sobs came out, and rather than pushing him away, she found herself clutching him more tightly to herself, although she could not reach her arms all the way around his bulk.

 

“They’ll come. They’ll freeze the whole world, and everyone will be dead.”

 

His arms came up then, and she sobbed anew to be held. “Maybe. But they’ll come to the Summer Isles last.”

 

\--------------

 

He didn’t stop her that night when she climbed atop him where he lay in his bunk, too cold to remove her dress. He sighed, hands finding a place on her thighs as she worked at the laces of his breeches, finding him him hard and ready once she’d slipped her hand inside.

 

It was only once she’d wriggled out of her own smallclothes, nearly tearing them to pull them off under the dress she wore, that he put a heavy hand on her arm.

 

“Sansa-”

 

“No.” The hand she placed over his mouth was hardly pressing at all, but he quieted quickly enough. “No talking.”

 

She knew he wanted her, had wanted her since King’s Landing. He’d come to her room the night of the battle, though he’d stolen no more than a kiss. And riding before him on his big black horse, after her own had perished, she’d felt the evidence of his desire pressing into the back of her, even through all the snow and pain and fear. He had never hidden it from her, and it was good. Something that hadn’t changed.

 

It was only him, now.

 

The tick beneath them prickled her knees through the rough blanket as she mounted him once more. He closed his eyes, teeth gritted as she slid down onto him, and she was startled to realize that her own flesh had become slick. That had never happened before. But then, she had only known Ramsey.

 

It was a little painful, still, but Sansa was not afraid of pain. It reminded her that she was alive. Watching him beneath her was good too. His hands had clenched on her hips, but he allowed her to set the pace, moving only to meet what she offered. Moving steadily, Sansa watched him, his head tipped back hard against the bed, tendons standing out in his throat. Working a hand under the neck of his tunic, she could feel the wild pounding of his heart under her palm, pressed flat against the hardness of his chest. Time seemed to be drawn out in long, strange bubbles.

 

When he abruptly tried to withdraw from her, she clung to him, crying out her displeasure. With a grunt, he gave in, slamming his hips hard up against her own, fingers digging deep into the flesh of her thighs and a wet warmth curling up inside of her. As he gasped and shuddered, lost in his pleasure, she felt a stirring of her own, deep in her belly. But then it was gone.

 

She knew she should clean herself, wash away the rapidly cooling stickiness on her bare thighs. Bust she only extricated his body from her own, and lay down half beside and half atop him in the narrow bunk. After a time, he stirred beside her, and reached down to tuck himself away again, though he didn’t bother to lace his breeches.

 

Turning, he did not ask before he kissed her, although she would have said yes if he had. He kissed as hard and desperate as she remembered, and for a moment she thought he meant to take her again. The stirring came back at the thought, and she tried desperately to hold on to the fluttery beginnings of pleasure in her body, but then he pulled away. Pulling her tightly against his side, he pressed his mouth to her forehead, hard enough that she could feel where the hard flesh of his scars began when his lips moved against her.

 

“They’ll come to the Summer Isles last.”


	11. Special Treasures(2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of my previous kidfic, in chapter 2

“Sansa?”

 

Sandor dropped the doll he was holding, and sat on it. He  _ hadn’t  _ been playing with it, just holding it for Sansa. Sansa’s mom had her head poked through the door. She was looking right at him, like she wanted to smile. But then she turned back to her daughter, and Sandor let out a sigh of relief. So she hadn’t seen.

 

“Sansa, you know we have to go. I’ve been telling you all day.”

 

Sansa sighed, and dropped the box. They’d been making a house for her dolls, because she didn’t have one yet. She said she asked for her birthday, so maybe she wouldn’t need it soon, but it was fun anyway.

 

“Can Sandor come?”

 

Mrs. Stark glanced in his direction. “I don’t see why not.” 

 

Sansa cheered, and pulled him to his feet. Her parents had asked, the first few times, if it was alright with Sandor’s Pa if he went places with them. It had taken a while for him to explain that he really didn’t care. He told them about before he’d met Sansa, when he’d been camping in the backyard for a few days. He didn’t have a real tent, but there was an old tarp he could use, with only two rips, and he’d gone to the bakery for bread. He hadn’t seen Pa all the while, until he’d stuck his head out the backdoor on the third day, grunted when he’d seen Sandor crawling out of the tent, and gone back inside. 

 

Sansa’s mom didn’t ask anymore.

 

Sandor tried to look into the rooms as Sansa pulled him down the hall. He’d seen her room, and Arya had wanted to show Sandor hers too, so he’d gotten to see that. And the big stone bathroom. But the big bedroom and the ones for her brothers, he hadn’t gotten to see yet.

 

But those doors were closed, and then they were thumping down the stairway, as Sansa’s mom called for them to  _ slow down. _ When they reached the kitchen, Sandor slipped on the tile and fell, pulling Sansa down with him. But it didn’t hurt, and they got back up before Mrs. Stark came around the corner, so that was alright.

 

“Is any of the others coming?”

 

“Oh no, they’re at Robb’s soccer match. Didn’t you see them leave?”

 

He hadn’t, but now that he looked around, Sandor couldn’t see them, and it was too quiet for them to be hiding. All Sansa’s brothers and even the baby were gone. Sandor was a little disappointed. He liked her brothers. Sometimes they let him play video games with them, but not for too long because he didn’t know how and kept dying. Last week they’d shown him wrestling. Real wrestling, like they had on TV. He was almost as big as Robb and Jon, but he’d still got beat. Mrs. Stark had yelled at them all for knocking over the table, and for hurting each other. It wasn’t bad; Jon had a split lip and Sandor had a few bruises, but Robb hadn’t been hurt hardly at all. He missed wrestling.

 

He buckled himself into the back of the car with Sansa. He liked riding in the Stark’s car. It was different than any of Pa’s had been. Shinier, and less noise. 

 

“Where are we going?” He whispered to Sansa sitting next to him. She was looking out the window and playing with her hair.

 

“We’re getting clothes. For school.”

 

“Oh.” He’d never been before. He just got Gregor’s old stuff, or sometimes the school gave him something when his jeans got too short. But maybe her school was different. Sansa told him they had to wear red and white and grey there, and nothing else. So it had to be.

 

The store was big and bright, and Sansa’s mom wanted both of them to hold her hands. When Sandor wouldn’t, she said he had to hold Sansa’s, which was OK. She liked to do that anyway. They went to a place with dresses and pink things and shirts with pictures on them. Sansa picked some stuff, and her mom picked more. And then Mrs. Stark said she had to try all of it on.

 

Sandor was getting bored by then. It took a long time, because Mrs. Stark said she had to stay with him instead of going in the little room with Sansa. She took his hand, and looked down at him all stern when he tried to pull away.

 

So he had to stand there and watch Sansa come out in pants and skirts and shirts that all looked the same to him. Except one dress, all in red checkers. He wrinkled his nose at that one.

 

“That looks stupid.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa looked down at herself, and then closed the door to take it off again.

 

“Sandor.” He looked up, a little wary at the sternness in her voice. He’d never seen her hit anybody, but that didn’t means he wouldn’t. “That’s not nice to say.”

 

He shrugged, wishing she would let go of his hand. “It was true.” The look on her face didn’t soften, and he eased away from her, their linked hands stretched in the space between them. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s Sansa you should say that to.”

 

“Well-” He bit his lip, but she didn’t look angry at him, so he kept going. “She did look dumb in it. And I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t say so.”

 

Mrs. Stark sighed as Sansa opened the door again, in the clothes she’d been wearing from home, but she didn’t say anything. Sandor was  _ finally  _ allowed in the little room then, but the inside wasn’t as cool as he’d thought it would be. Just white walls with a big mirror, just like the one in Sansa’s room, and he had to help pick up all the clothes that she had dropped everywhere.

 

“Would you two like something to eat?”

 

Sansa said yes, they would, for both of them, so Sandor didn’t have to say anything. Sansa’s mom was always getting them stuff to eat, good stuff. He would have liked her just for that, for the burgers and chicken and oranges and bananas. He’d never had a banana before, and Sansa had got to show him how to peel it, like you peeled the cheese they gave you at school, only you didn’t eat the peeled off parts.

 

They got sandwiches today, and Sansa hadn’t wanted to eat the grapes that came with, but Mrs. Stark wouldn't let Sandor take them. She said that Sansa had to eat them, but she got Sandor some more just for him. She watched while he ate it, and he thought he would like her more if she didn’t do that. He already liked her plenty, except for that. She would sit and watch him, close-watch him, like she knew something he didn’t. Sometimes when she did that, she made like she wanted to talk to him about something, but she never did. It made him want to go where she couldn’t see him, but he couldn’t go outside like he could at Sansa’s house. They had gone Out, and when they went Out the rule was that he and Sansa were supposed to stay with Mrs. Stark, or Sansa’s dad. He didn’t like Sansa’s dad. He never shouted, and didn’t pay much attention to Sandor, and that was good. It was safer that way.

 

After they were done, Sansa asked if they could go to the bookstore, before she took them back in the car. Her mom said yes, and Sansa had Sandor by the hand again when they went. He’d never been. It was too far to walk, and Sansa had said it was where she got all her books. It was bright and colorful, and there were more kids there than the clothes store. Sandor got to follow Sansa when she went to pick her new book, because she said she’d get a new one every new year at school.

 

“Sandor-” 

 

He looked up at Mrs. Stark when she said his name. She didn’t make them hold hands in here, had just sat in the corner drinking her coffee while they looked. There were different kinds of books here, ones he’d never seen before. Sansa had showed him the one he was looking at, a big picture one he’d thought they were too old for before she’d told him that it was a Waldo book, and her brothers liked those, so Sandor couldn’t be too old for them. It was fun to try and find Waldo, but it was better to look at all the little people and see what they were all doing.

 

“Would you like the book? I was going to get you one too, for the new school year.”

 

She was looking down at him with her hair, a dark red that wasn’t as pretty as Sansa’s, and her lipstick and her earings, and he felt his tongue stick in his throat. Turning to find Sansa, he saw that she had wandered down the aisle, to talk to the kids that wouldn’t come closer to Sandor and his scars, so she couldn’t answer for him. He looked back at Mrs. Stark, and bit his lip. It was harder to answer when Sansa wasn’t right there to help. She crouched down next to him, sitting right on the floor so that she wasn’t taller than him anymore.

 

“I like these books too. Sometimes I steal them from Robb, so that I can have a look.” She laughed, and Sandor saw that she had spilled a little of her coffee, a small brown stain breaking the crisp whiteness of her shirt, and he could talk again.

 

“It’s OK.”

 

“It’s no trouble, honey.” She called him that sometimes, like she called Sansa or Arya that, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

 

“No, it’s OK.”

 

“I mean it.” She was smiling at him, and not the sad smile she sometimes got, a real one. “Don’t you want it? You’ve been looking at this one for a long time. I could get you a different one if you like- there are more over there.”

 

“No, I want it.”

 

Sansa would have understood, but she was still talking to the other girls.

 

“Then what’s the problem?” She had her legs crossed underneath her now, sitting like Sansa and him did when they played outside on the lawn, even though it looked strange with the black slacks she wore.

 

“I-” He glanced behind him, but Sansa still didn’t come. Looking back up at Mrs. Stark, he saw that she was waiting. He would have to answer her.

 

“They’ll take it.”

 

“Who?” Her brow had crinkled, her smile slipping a little.

 

Pa would, if Gregor wasn’t home. He had a book of his own already, that he’d found at school and taken home, but that was a little one. This one was new, and too big to hide well. Pa would give it back, but Gregor wouldn’t if he found it.

 

“Your Dad? Or your brother?”

 

Sandor didn’t say anything. He’d never told her about them, but he guessed Sansa might’ve.

 

“Why would they want it? Your brother’s older than you, right? Older than Robb?”

 

Sandor thought so, but Gregor was bigger than lots of people he wasn’t older than. And he wouldn’t want it, not really, but he wouldn't want Sandor to have it either. Sansa’s mom had sent him home with food before, when they went on trips and he wouldn’t see them for a few days. They’d been fancy sandwiches, with lettuce and meat instead of peanut butter, just like they’d just had for lunch, and she’d wrapped them in plastic for him. But he’d always shoved them down his pants and under his shirt, so nobody could see.

 

He just shrugged. “They’ll take it.”

 

She was quiet for a moment, and he he squirmed a little on the hard-carpeted floor. She was looking at him again.

 

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “Allright. How about this. What if Sansa took it home, and put it on her bookshelf? You know the one.”

 

He did. It was yellow wood, that Sansa said her uncle had made her for her bedroom. It wasn’t full yet.

 

“We’ll write your name on it, and everybody will know that it belongs to you. Nobody will touch it, if you don’t want them to.”

 

“It would be OK if Sansa used it. Or you,” He said, because she had said she liked those books.

 

She smiled, and it was a bit sad, but a bit real too. “Does that mean you agree with my plan?”

 

He nodded.

 

It wasn't until Sansa had picked out her own book, and they had made their way past all the shelves full of candy and gum to the registers, that he remembered.

 

“Thank you.”

  
She told him ‘Your welcome’, and gave him the bag with  _ his _ book in it to carry to the car. When she took his hand along with Sansa’s to cross the parking lot, he didn’t try to pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on having a total of three parts for this, although I'm not sure when the third will be written.


	12. To Put on a Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny little thing, but I had fun with it!

It was mid-afternoon, well into their daily workout when it happened. Sandor had just finished his turn on the bench press, standing in that giddy, sweaty high that had meant he had pushed things just far enough, when he saw her approaching.

 

“You forgot something this morning.” The wallet, thick and brown between her slender fingers, had him slapping his pockets even though he’d already changed into his gym shorts, and it wouldn’t have been there anyway.

 

“Oh, shit- thanks.”

 

Sandor was acutely aware of the others watching them, in Tor’s case with his mouth agape. Bronn hadn’t taken his own turn yet, leaning against the bench just staring, while Drogo watched with a quirked eyebrow as he gulped down his water.

 

Sansa, of course, chattered on at him as though she saw nothing, happily telling him about her day with the little shits she taught, and going on about the weather for much longer than he thought the dreary gray sheet of clouds warranted. Drogo’s eyebrows rose ever higher when she began describing the broccoli-rabe-something that she said she would be making with dinner.

 

The cherry on top of the little sugar-spun confection her words had made was the little kiss she planted on his cheek, and the low murmur of  “I love you,” before she made her exit, smiling brightly at the guys as she did so.

 

Sandor stood where he was for a moment, watching her leave the small sweaty-smelling room that she did not look as though she belonged in, with her pretty teacher’s skirt and blouse. The back of her was not nearly as nice as the front, but it was good to look at all the same.

 

A hand clapped down on his shoulder as she turned the corner, and he turned to see Bronn beside him, eyes sliding from the swish of skirt as Sansa disappeared to Sandor’s face.

 

“The hell have you been hiding  _ her?” _

 

Sandor scowled, hand coming up to smack the back of the man's neck. “Away from you.”

 

“She’s making you dinner, is she? How long?”

 

Sandor ducked away from the arm Bronn was trying to sling around his neck. “It’s your turn.”

 

“Come on.” Sandor narrowed his eyes at Tor, which did nothing to discourage him of course, his open-mouthed expression turning gleeful. “We’ve been trying to drag you out of your hole for weeks, and now we know why you wouldn’t come out. You’ve gotta give us something.”

 

“He doesn’t have to say anything, if he doesn’t want. It’s his business, isn’t it?” But the look Drogo was giving him was more speculative than Sandor liked

 

“No. I don’t.” He wished one of them would  _ do _ something other than stare at him like he’d grown a second head. “And I come here to work out, not to talk to you old women.”

 

“You come here because you work here.” Bronn was settling on the bench now, but more like a lazy cat than a man intent on serious effort.

 

“I  _ own _ this place.” 

 

“With me. Same thing though, isn’t it? Just a bit more money.”

 

“No, it’s not.” He’d been bloody proud when he’d finally had the money to do it, after years spent squirreling away every spare penny he had, living in the cheapest shithole he could find. Hell if he knew where Bronn had gotten his share, the way the man threw money about sometimes, but the point was that he’d gotten it. There weren't many members yet, and never would be as many as the bigger, chain places, but there was enough for scraping by. The scraping became less and less every month.

 

“Well. She’s something, isn’t she?” Bronn grinned his feline smile, and just stared. “College student, is she?”

 

“She’s twenty-nine,” he snapped.

 

Fuck. Why had he said that? He had meant to keep his silence about everything. With all the questions about dinner, and the how-longs and the how-olds, he almost wished that the other sort of speculation would start, that Tor would start up with the terrible jokes that Bronn always laughed at anyway. Better than three members of the small group of people he actually  _ liked _ suddenly turning into a bunch of gossipy hens.

 

Running a hand through his hair, he looked at the ground for a moment. Nodding to himself, he looked up, ignoring the three varying grins fixed upon him. “You’ll help Pod close.”

 

The satisfaction of watching Bronn’s smile shrink was brief but intense.

 

“Hell if I will. It’s your turn tonight, shithead.”

 

But he had already turned, snatching up his bag and swinging away down the same staircase Sansa had used only moments ago. If he hurried-

 

“Pod!”

 

The boy nearly fell off his chair, jerking himself up so straight that Sandor thought his spine might snap. “Sir?”

 

“I’ve told you- never mind.” If the boy wouldn’t just give in and call him Clegane like all the rest, it was no good to remind him for the upteenth time. “Bronn’s closing with you tonight, and I’m leaving my car here.”

 

“Yes. Very good. I mean-”

 

The rest of the stammered sentence was lost as Sandor jogged out into the parking lot, waving through the drizzle at the little blue car as it began to pull out of it’s spot. Sansa unlocked and pushed open the door for him, and he swung his bag into the backseat, and heaved himself into the passenger seat.

 

“Aren’t you going to drive home?”

 

“Nah. It’ll make me run in tomorrow.” It was only a few miles from the new apartment, and the rain had been making him lazy of late.

 

Sansa was staring at him, wrinkling her nose.

 

“What?”

 

“You stink.”

 

“Oh.” He leaned back against the seat, the vinyl squeaking against his sweaty clothes. “I just thought I’d leave early today.” The place did belong to him, or at least half of it did. He ought to take advantage sometimes.

 

“So I gathered.” The car pulled away, windshield wipers squeaking into motion. After a moment of silence, Sandor sighed, resting his head back against the seat.

 

“Did you have to-”

 

“Yes.” It was said very baldly, matter-of-factly. She glanced at him, small smirk on her lips. “Do they even know you’re getting married?”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

Her eyes swung back to the road as the light turned. “I thought so.”

 

“Look-”

 

“I know.” There was no animosity in her voice, and he relaxed, though he had not really expected any. Not from her. “But you’ve met all my family, and I’ve had my friends over. It’s been two years, and that’s the first time I’ve ever even  _ sort of _ met any of yours.”

 

She shot another glance at him. “I know Bronn from that one picture. The ginger’s Tormund, right?” Nodding to herself without really looking at him, she hesitated. “The other, with the mustache-”

 

“Drogo.”

 

“Of course.” 

 

Silence fell again for a few moments, and he bit the inside of his cheek. They’d danced this dance before. There wasn't really anything to say, except that he wished she’d have let him do things in his own time. But he knew what she’d say to  _ that _ without ever having to open his mouth. Pulling into the lot of their apartment building, Sansa turned the car off. 

 

“You know they’d have found out soon enough anyway.”

 

They had decided on a small ceremony, with only family (Sansa) and close friends (Sandor) in attendance. Mostly, Sansa had said, so she wouldn't have to invite her Aunt Lysa.

 

“I know.” He eyes her, watched the sway of her hair as she reached down to unbuckle himself, and reaching one hand out to feel the bright strands. “Maybe I wanted to keep you to myself for a while.”

 

“For two years?” But she was smiling, leaning into his hand. “Admit it. You like them thinking you’re some kind of sad-sack.”

 

He only shrugged. When she pulled away, turning to meet his eyes and raise a brow, he sighed. “They get me drinks when we go out.”

 

She snorted, shaking her head, and pulled away entirely, opening the door to the dismal rain, leaving a cold spot on his arm in her absence. “Come on. You can get the groceries.”


	13. Better or Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, do me a favor and give me some feedback on this one? I got it in my head, and had to get it out, but I'm not exactly happy with it. It feels very confused to me, and I'm not sure how to get it in order.
> 
> Also, fair warning: got more than a little unhealthy here, relationship wise.
> 
> EDIT: Updated! Hopefully a bit more coherent now.

The Man who shot the Mountain. It was what they were all calling him, the newspapers and magazines, the ones who bought the shots that were taken by the cunts who dogged his footsteps, with their cries to ‘ _ look right here _ ’, and the flashes of light that followed.

 

There was a pack of cigarettes in the nightstand, he knew, but he did not reach for them. It was necessary sometimes, to test himself, to watch the flickering end come closer and closer, and to feel the giddy high of accomplishment when he finally finished and stubbed it out. He didn't feel the need for one today. Despite his last few days, Sandor felt oddly clear-headed.

 

There was a stirring beside him, and he glanced down to see her stretch for that drawer, long strands of her hair not quite covering the pale flesh of her tits.

 

“Don’t.”

 

She glanced over at him, and withdrew empty-handed back to her position on the bed. She looked down at her hands, clasped in his lap, as he eyed her. She had not drawn up the sheet to cover herself, and that was good. She always did that when he pushed things too far. She sat quietly as he tipped her chin back with a finger, pushed the mass of her hair back over her shoulders. He sighed, looking down at her. Wherever her line was, he could not see how he hadn’t crossed it. There were already faint bruises springing up on her thighs, and others in pale circlets around her wrists. Her nipples were red, sore-looking, and the uncomfortable way she shifted on the bed as she sat up spoke of soreness elsewhere too.

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

It was surprisingly easy to say, easier than it had ever been before. She didn’t tell him it was alright, but she never did that because it wasn’t. She did lift her eyes to meet his own, as startlingly blue as her hair was auburn. He could not quite read her look- it was not reproachful exactly, but not forgiving either. Thoughtful was the word he’d put to it, if he had to. Sandor dropped his gaze to her throat. He could not remember biting her, but the marks were there, stark against the paleness of her skin, mixed with other marks he did not remember putting there. They covered the other, fading bruises well enough though.

 

Sansa reached for the drawer again, and this time he said nothing to stop her. He watched as she lit her cigarette, watched the way she clenched it between her teeth as she drew in the smoke, little puffs leaving her mouth like clouds. It was remarkably indelicate for a woman like her, but then he’d shown her how to smoke, and that was how he did it.

 

“What will you do now?”

 

She spoke quietly, long fingers pinching the cigarette between them as she tapped the ash into the coffee mug atop the nightstand. He shrugged. He still had his job, the trucking company had been decent enough about that. And even if he didn’t, he had his own rig. He could go independant, or find another place to work. But that wasn't what she was asking.

 

“Dunno.”

 

It had not taken him by surprise, that the red-clotted anger and bitter hate had not met its end with his brother. He had carried them too long for that, for them to slip away now. They had even seemed to grow stronger, for lack of a target. He had done the proper thing for a time, and put some distance between himself and Sansa. Flown down to Dorne for a few days, where he’d not had to buy a single drink of his own. No one could mistake him, with his size and his scars, and with the fucking media parading both around whenever they could. The Viper had been popular in Dorne, the only boxer from the region to rise high. The man had made his vendetta against Gregor as public as might be, after that business with his sister. So they all bought him drinks down there, and some women had even come up to him while he drank them, promising him much and more with their smiles and caresses.

 

Women had never come up to him much, and the women who did tended to be the ones who decided that they liked the twisted horror that was his face, or the ones who wanted to prove to themselves or their friends that they didn’t  _ really  _ care. It was a lie of course, but he liked the latter far better than the former. He had a few of those in his past, and they were all fucked up. Not that he himself was much better, but his gorge rose at the thought of hurting a woman, like the last one had asked. He didn't mind hard, he  _ liked _ doing them rough, but when they asked him to make it hurt-

 

There had been no more of that kind, not after that.

 

No more of any of the sort for a while now. Not with  _ her _ waiting back at his apartment, in his bed. Back in Dorne, he’d thought for a moment of picking one of the women who had sidled up to him. He’d never had a Dornish women, and he’d been hearing all his life that they were different, somehow, than other Westerosi women, that their blood ran hotter.

 

But he hadn’t.

 

For all else Sansa seemed willing to put up with, other women would be where she drew the line. It had been that way with her cunt of a fiance. For all Joffrey had put her through, it was the affairs which had brought an end to it, had driven her to Sandor, who had taken her away like he’d promised. He’d promised to be better for her too, when she’d called, in tears, asking him to come and get her, that she’d finally left. Cruel joke. He’d been Joffrey’s bodyguard for years before he’d left, he knew what the little shit was like. Knew what he was like with  _ her _ . Wasn’t difficult to do better than that.

 

But for all the bruises that he sometimes gave her, the drinking she hated but would never say anything about, he knew where her limit was, as little sense as it made to him.

 

She never said no, never told him to stop. Not the drinking, not when he grew rough enough with her to leave marks on her skin. She would go withdrawn and quiet, stiff under his hands, avoiding his eyes. Would take a few days to start whistling again as she did the dishes, a cheerful bird’s song that he had always paused to listen to. 

 

Would he hear it today? She had been quiet since the night it had happened, though no tears had been spilled. That he had seen, at least.

 

Gregor wasn’t supposed to have known. No one was- Sansa had not left the apartment since the day she had arrived, with tears hanging from her lashes and such a hopeful look about her that he had not been able to meet her eyes. He was supposed to have protected her. That was why she had come, why she let the likes of him into her bed and into her life. But he’d done it, in the end. Had come home to her cowering on the couch, and him hunched over her with a hand on her. Just one hand. But it had been enough.

 

Then there had been the crack of a gunshot, and then another and another as he dragged Sansa away from the twitching mass of flesh that had been a man. His gun was in his hand, though he had not remembered drawing it, and in the end, he had emptied it into his brother. The police had told him later that any one of the bullets would have been enough. Sandor was a good shot.

 

“Thought I might give Selmy a call.”

 

He realized it was true as soon as the words left his lips, though he had not had the thought until this moment.

 

She sat up, stubbing out the rest of her cigarette. He watched the sway of her breasts as she settled back into bed and settled the blue checked comforter around herself, though he knew he wouldn’t touch her for a few days. Just as he knew she would try to make him, sleeping naked into bed, and watching him with lidded eyes. He only half understood this game they played, and wasn’t all sure if she understood the other half.

 

“I thought you hated your old job.”

 

He shook his head. “No. I hated Joffrey. And his cunt mother. I wasn’t going to work for the Lannisters.” She ought to know that- Barristan hated them nearly as much as Sandor did. He’d pressed a card into Sandor’s hand the day he’d jumped ship, and told him to call if he ever felt like a better job. It had taken him by surprise at the time. He and the old man had never really gotten on well. He had eventually figured it had been a pity offer- helping out the scarred freak who likely couldn’t find work elsewhere. The thought had stopped him from calling when he himself had quit a month later. He’d found a job driving a truck around, more than anything to prove to himself that he could find other work. But now-

 

“So- you’ll work security for the Targaryens?” There was a mocking lilt to her voice, and Sandor’s eyes narrowed.

 

“He can probably put me in touch with somebody or other. Everyone needs bodyguards.” Everyone from the world Sansa had left, anyways, and some liked theirs to be fucking scary. He could do scary, everybody thought that, even those who had never met him.

 

He clenched his teeth at the memory. Gregor’s manager had sent him an email, not three hours after it had happened. He’d seen it days later, when he’d finally thought to email his boss, though they all had to know by then, as splashed over the news as everything was. Apparently, there was a spot for him on the smug little man’s roster, though Sandor had never boxed a day in his life. He thought introducing Sandor as “The Rabid Dog” work quite nicely for the ratings.

 

He’d left for Dorne then, dropping his phone to the floor. Sansa had been curled up in a blanket at the breakfast bar, livid bruises standing out on her throat and shoulder, hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea. She’d twisted around to watch him, and he’d seen the movement out of the corner of his eye. Knew he could turn to face her, grab her, pull her against him. Take out some of the roiling heat inside of him and pour it into her.

 

She never said no. 

 

Not even when he was hurting her, and the both of them knew it.

 

He’d just turned on his heel and left. Much good it had done her. Here they were after all, as though he had never gone anywhere.

 

“Alright.” she seemed almost hesitant, starting to curl her legs to her chest, before wincing, and settling them back against the bed. He felt a pang go through him, as it always did when he saw her hurting afterwards. When he saw the bruises. A strange mix of guilt and satisfaction.

 

“I thought I might-” She was biting her lip, eyes fixed somewhere around his chest, all the mocking gone from her voice. She was quiet now, speaking scarcely above a whisper. “I thought I might get a job. Something.” She shrugged, eyes still on his collarbone.

 

So this was the way of it then. He’d outlived his purpose, with his brother’s death. Not much in looked frightling after a man the size of Gregor with his hand on you, promising to rape you. A bitter taste curdled in the back of his throat at the memory. How Gregor had  _ smiled _ at him as he’d come in, the way he always had years and years before. Back when he’d inevitably found something or someone precious to Sandor and broken it, right in front of him. He’d been small back then, a frightened weeping thing, crying for a mother who had long since left and a sister who he couldn’t help. No more. Fire did that to you, it would seem. Hardened and tempered you.

 

Part of him had thought, in a grudging kind of way, that it might have bound Sansa ever tighter  to him for a time. Maybe even forever. He had proved what he could do, if it came to it. He could protect her, better than any other man. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

 

He suddenly wanted that cigarette, something to distract from the well of thoughts rising up in him. He’d foolishly thought, once, that he could be good for her. Be  _ kind _ to her. But that was all horseshit. He’d never even tried.

 

She’d tried for him, he knew. Had looked at his face when he asked, when he was inside her and trying desperately to be gentle. Trying and mostly failing, at least when it counted. Had cooked for him, and turned the shitty little apartment he’d moved into after King’s Landing into something like a home. Had smiled for him when he came back, told him she’d missed him.

 

Couldn’t have been hard, to miss the only living thing she saw all day. The bright figures moving on the television did not count, no matter how much time she spent with them.

 

She’d been pulled out by the police, been pulled away from him, and he’d been unable to follow her. They’d kept them apart, but they must have let her go home after a while. Long enough to make her public appeal. He’d been shown that by one of the cops right before they’d let him go. She’d been wearing a sweater he’d never seen before, a deep blue one that did not cover her shoulders, skin laid bare with her hair scraped up into a high horsetail. He’d seen the bruises for the first time, seen the imprint of large fingers on her shoulder. She’d told her tale, with a strong voice and trembling fingers, and the public had fallen in love with her for it.

 

He’d seen the very first articles. They had been all about the Clegane brothers, the both of them killers. One in the ring, and one outside of it. They didn't seem to much care that the men Sandor had killed had been  _ necessary _ . Back in the army, had been he or them, and he had always chosen himself. They’d also spotlighted Gregor’s string of dead wives, implying with their words that Sansa could be the next one, at another Clegane’s hands.

 

With Sansa’s story, and subsequent plea to release Sandor, the narrative had changed. Suddenly everyone was calling what he had with the girl, whatever  _ that _ was, some kind of a wretched Beauty and the Beast tale.

 

Well, whatever tale they had was ending. She had been forced outside by all the chaos, and remembered that she didn’t really need him. That the world loved her, and could open doors for her that Sandor himself never could. She had the right last name after all, and her family’s old northern friends were beside themselves, wanting her to come home, to take over her father’s business. Even if she didn't want that, she had money. In a few months time, she would be another year older and come into her inheritance. Sandor guessed it would be more than substantial. More than enough to sustain a girl like Sansa.

 

“I thought-” He pulled his eyes back up to her face. He had been raking them up and down her body, wondering when the last time he would see her like this would come.

 

“I thought maybe we could move.” 

 

His heart stuttered a bit at the  _ we _ in there, that he could be allowed to have her for a bit longer. It made him angry, made the blood rise to his head to think that he would crawl after whatever she was willing to give him for as long as she was willing to give it. It made him want to take her again.

 

“Why? Lannisport not good enough for you?”

 

His voice had risen with every word, and he watched her bite her lip, twitch the sheet up to cover her breasts, shaking her head.

 

“No.”

 

There it was. The word she never said. Not when she should say it, anyway. Not to him, or even to Joffrey and Cersai. She had always just  _ let _ them do as they pleased, until someone had come to take her away. He just happened to be that someone.

 

“No?” He put a hand on her hip, noticing the slight flinch away from him, though she said nothing. Her skin was sticky, and warm. There was so much he could do, wanted to do.

 

He had always said he was better than his brother. But that wasn’t exactly hard.

 

“Fuck.” He pulled away from her, tossing himself back down on the pillows.

 

Staring at the pale ceiling, it came floating back to him. What that one therapist had said, the one they’d made him see after the army.

 

_ Better doesn’t always mean good. _

 

Had he ever even tried?

 

“I only meant-” she broke off when he turned to face her, but when he did nothing but look at her, she forged on. “I thought we could move out of this place. After-” She touched her shoulder, and the side of her neck. She had fresh bruises there now. From him.

 

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

 

It made sense. He hadn’t been able to look at their little sitting room since it had happened, since he’d come home to find his brother with his hand-

 

Well. He didn’t know how  _ she _ could still go out there. She even sat in the same spot sometimes, where she had been sprawled when it had happened. He though she might be forcing herself to do so, to replay the events of that night. He didn’t know why. Things repeated often enough in the mind, like some horrible play. They didn’t need help.

 

“If you got a new job- you’d sell the rig? You wouldn’t leave for days, like you had to before?”

 

“Yeah.” What was she getting at?

 

“So- you’d be here more often? Home, I mean. Wherever that is.”

 

He just stared at her. She didn’t look away, and that look was back in her eye, the same thoughtful one as earlier. She had dropped the sheet again, letting it pool in her lap.

 

Why did she do it? Offer and offer herself, time and again, for him to have as he wanted and not as he should?

 

Had he ever even tried? Really?

 

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be home more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please comment. I hate feeling stuck, and really want to make this one better. I have no one else to show, really, not in my day to day life.


	14. Sundaes and Shaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little lighter than the past one. Still fucking around with Sandor POV, and trying to get in the right mindset for the highschool fic I'm writing, so here we are.

He didn’t want to do it. She was looking at him expectantly, seated on the edge of the tub, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out in front. It was still in her hand, stretched out towards him, as much a challenge as it was a supplication.

 

“No.”

 

“Come on,” She dropped her hand back to her side, the _thing_ she was trying to give him clacking against the rim of the tub. “You said you would. You _promised._ ”

 

“I never did-” Movement caught Sandor’s eye, and he saw Brother Eli passing the door again, not seeming to look at them at all. He was always doing that when Sansa was here, walking past the door that Sandor always left open, because Brother E told him he had to if Sansa was in there with him. He never stared or said anything, but he didn’t do that when Sandor was alone.

 

“I didn’t promise.” He hadn’t. Not really. More like implied.

 

“Please?”

 

She was doing that thing again, where she bit her lip and made her eyes big and round. She knew what she was doing. And she knew that he knew what she was doing. But it still made his stomach feel light and somehow more alive, almost as though it was moving. That someone could look at him like that, that _she_ could look at him like that-

 

“Fine.”

 

Grinning in triumph, she passed him the razor. It was a new one, one of the things that Brother E had insisted on buying him, even though his old one worked perfectly fine. It unbalanced him, made him feel as though he owed the man something, though the brother never tried to collect. At least, he hadn’t so far.

 

Picking up the can of shaving cream, he watched her reflection in the little mirror over the sink.

 

“Can’t you wait in my room?” He usually liked to take his shirt off for this, so it didn’t get messy, but that would undoubtedly fall under Brother E’s broad category of _too far._ Besides. The thought of her seeing him like that made him feel squirmy somehow, like his skin had gotten a bit too small.

 

“No. I want to make sure.”

 

“It’s not like I can f-” He glanced towards the hallway. Brother E wasn’t there, but he lowered his voice anyway. “I can’t fucking hide it and put it on later. Come on.”

 

When she just shrugged, he sighed, and turned back to the mirror, trying to ignore her. The cream got on his shirt, like he was afraid it would. It was one of the new ones too, the ones that fit him better. Hovering the razor over his upper lip, he couldn’t help but look at her out of the corner of his eye.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Yeah. I’m sure.” She pulled her leg from underneath her, and swung it to the floor. “I don’t know why you care so much.”

 

“I don’t know why _you_ do. It’s not your face.”

 

“Well-” Now it was her turn to glance towards the hallway, and lower her voice. “It is me who has to kiss it, isn’t it?”

 

It wasn’t fair when she did that, brought that up. No more than it was fair when she pouted at him like she had. He still couldn’t believe it, that this was happening, this thing between them. He’d been lucky enough to have her as his friend. Few enough people wanted to be friends with the too-tall, scarred up foster kid, and even fewer were pretty girls like Sansa.

 

It had sort of happened by accident. He’d punched Baratheon for her, the smarmy shit he was on the baseball team with, when he’d been calling her names, when he’d been making her cry. Sandor had gotten himself suspended for that. Brother Eli hadn’t been happy, but Sansa had come up to him after, when he’d got back in school, and thanked him. She’d taken pains to talk to him afterwards in the hallways and at lunch, and somehow some of her friends had started calling themselves Sandor’s friends too, though he never really saw any of them without her. She’d stuck close to him in gym, and Sandor had felt the thrill of her hand on his arm, even if it was mostly for the benefit of the blond prick glaring at them from across the room. But then she’d started asking him over to her house, and coming round to his too. He had wanted to melt through the floor when Brother E had asked if she was his girlfriend. Sansa had colored as well, a splotchy heat that spread across her cheeks and down her neck. But she’d been smiling too. It had still taken him weeks to work up the courage to ask, and he’d been somehow unprepared when she’d said yes.

 

“I guess.”

 

That had come as almost a surprise too- the kissing. He’d gotten to hold her hand in school, and out of it. He’d survived that uncomfortable dinner with her family, when her older brother and cousin had somehow caught wind of Sansa’s new boyfriend, and come all the way from college just to glare at him over beef stew, while Sansa’s parents pretended nothing was amiss and her little brothers and sister sniggered into their own bowls. But she was allowed to come over more often after that, after Sansa’s mom had met Brother Eli properly when he’d come to drive Sandor back to the house. He and Sansa had talked more. He’d told her things he’d never told anyone. Some things he hadn’t even been brave enough to say out loud to himself. About Gregor and his Dad, what little he could remember of either of them, and about how _everybody_ who was related to him was either dead or in jail. She’d told him he wouldn’t be like them, and when she said it, he almost believed it himself.

 

He hadn’t expected to be allowed to do other things too, not really. For all the time he’d spent imagining it, he hadn’t been able to do it when she’d asked, huffily, if he was _ever_ going to kiss her. She’d had to, and it was a memory he clung to, when the nightmares came back. It was as close to perfect as any moment he was like to ever get. After school, sitting behind the stands while everyone else watched a hockey game that neither of them really cared anything about. They’d been sitting opposite each other, and she’d risen to her knees, laying one hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, the scarred one. Her lips had pressed to his, and the heady, crystallizing moment had disappeared, turning into a warm, sweet world where there was nothing but the two of them. Even when they’d been interrupted by some of her- their- her giggling friends, the rest of the night had been like some glorious dream.

 

The memory of her mouth against his, the catch of her sweater under his hands, was enough to drive away the nightmares that still woke him, sweating, in the middle of the night. The burning, the horrible, sticking pain, and the fuzziness of the hospital after, where he was left alone with no visitors but the nurses-

 

The stroke of the razor brought him back to earth, back to the slight heaviness that had grown in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I liked it.”

 

“So grow it back when it comes in better. Shaving helps that, doesn’t it?”

 

“Growing it out more helps that.” He should be hurrying, trying to get the whole thing over with so they could go to his room and pick some music and _talk,_ even if there could be no more then hand-holding with Brother Eli’s unpredictable rounds.

 

“It wasn’t growing out, not proper. Jeyne said so too.”

 

He just rolled his eyes, and kept on with his slow, careful strokes. So there had been some little spots where no hair come in. If he’d just grown it out, no one would have been able to tell.

 

“You know-” When Sansa broke off, he glanced up at her. She was not usually bashful with him, not since the first tenuous days of their friendship, but she was blushing now. “I was meaning to tell you. Your dad-”

 

“He’s not-”

 

“Foster dad, you know what I mean. Brother Eli. He had the talk with me.” She was examining the shaving can balanced on the edge of the sink, as though it were the most interesting thing in the room.

 

“What do you mean? You mean the _Talk,_ the talk?”

 

She nodded, still not meeting his eye.

 

“What the hell?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know. It was when he picked me up to go to your game last week. We got there early, and he made me sit in the car with him in the parking lot. He said-” She broke off. Her pink face was clashing magnificently with her hair now. “He said lots of things, but he mostly said that if we ever- _do_ anything, he wants to know we’ll be safe and know where to get stuff.”

 

He rounded to face her completely, face still half-covered in foam. “The _hell?_ He wouldn’t even let us sit on the bed when we were watching movies the other day.” It had been fucking _Narnia,_ for Christ's sake. Sansa had made him watch it, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t liked it a little.

 

“I know. He said-” She bit her lip, eyes slipping over to his own, and he hastily turned back to the mirror. “He said he could trust me more with knowing, because I wouldn’t think it was permission.”

 

It _was_ bloody permission though, or as close as he would ever get from a brother of the faith. “What, he thinks I don’t know how to go to a pharmacy?”

 

She didn’t answer. In the following silence, his mind wandered some, going to the private little corner he tried to stay firmly away from when Sansa was around. It hadn’t existed before that night, the night of the first hockey game they hadn’t watched. Before that, she’d been this unreal _thing_ , like some sprite made of silk and air, but her kiss had turned her decidedly into flesh and blood, with skin softer than he could have imagined when she’d let him touch her cheek. He’d felt the shape of her when he’d tentatively wrapped his arms around her sides, hands settling in the dip of her waist, sliding to rest on the flair of her hips-

 

“Shit!” He fumbled the razor and let it drop into the bowl of the sink, pressing a finger to the sting by the corner of his mouth.

 

“Language.” The call floated from somewhere in the house, though nowhere nearby.

 

“Oh- oh, here.” Sansa had scrambled to her feet at his exclamation, pulling some toilet paper from the roll on the back of the toilet, and stretching to press it to his face.

 

“No- I’ve got it.” She backed away as he took the little pad she had made from her handful, but did not sit down again. She was still far too close in the confines of the bathroom that Brother E said was Sandor’s, despite all the empty rooms beside Sandor’s own. He’d asked once, and the brother had said that he was getting older, and would only take one foster at a time now, though some of his old ones used the rooms every now and again when they visited. It made him uneasy when they did, and he always tried to make himself scarce, tossing baseballs to himself in the field down the road, or going to Sansa’s when he could. They were always hugging the brother, then trying to shake Sandor’s hand, and tell him that they somehow knew _just_ what he was feeling, just what he was like, even though he’d never met them before.

 

“I’m- I’m done.” He pulled the toilet paper away to rinse his face quickly, ignoring the sting of the small cut. The roughness against his fingers told him he’d missed a spot or two, but he’d do it proper later, when Sansa had gone home.

 

He ducked quickly out of the bathroom, crossing the hall to enter his own room. He swallowed, watching Sansa sit cross legged on his bed, her jeans dark against the paleness of his sheets. She pulled his laptop onto her knees, abandoned where they’d left it when she’d shepherded him into the bathroom and thrust the razor under his nose.

 

It had been a present, a Christmas present from Brother Eli. Sandor had only been living with him for a month or so when the end of that year had come, and the brother had presented him with the computer, the first Sandor had ever owned. He had been painfully aware that he had nothing to give in return, even though Brother E had said that his Christmas gift to him, to the faith, and to everybody was to help serve the food at the shelter with him and all the other brothers. He’d done it, and a few times since as well, but the laptop was still heavily weighing on the invisible tally Sandor kept of what he owed Brother E. He knew the man was _paid_ to keep him, like all the others had been, but there was more than food and a bed. There was a baseball uniform once the brother had somehow gotten wind that he wanted to join, and new clothes, and the money he called an allowance-

 

He prayed with Brother Eli every night before they went to bed, and every morning before Sandor went to school, and mostly he really did try. Said the words when they went to the bigger sept, and thought up his own prayers in the little room they had here in the house.

 

The laptop had come with blockers of course. No porn in this house. But they couldn’t block _everything_. It hadn’t taken long to work that out.

 

“Is this ok?” Sansa swiveled the laptop to show him her chosen playlist, and he nodded. It was stuff he liked, that he’d gotten her into a bit too. Better than that shit she liked to sing in the car with her friend Jeyne anyway, when Mrs. Stark drove them to Arya’s choir recitals. Somehow, Sandor always got invited to those now, and Bran’s gymnastics, and even little Rickon’s soccer games, where they just chased the ball and kicked it _wherever._

 

She turned the music up, loud enough to obscure their talk, though soft enough that Eli wouldn’t come knocking to tell them to quiet down.

 

“Hey- what I said before.” She was biting her lip again, though this time it was not meant to be enticing. “I didn’t mean-”

 

“Yeah.” He nodded at her, trying to show his sincerity with his eyes, however that worked. She always looked at his eyes, since they’d gotten to know each other. He liked that more than he could ever say, and he’d tried to tell her before. “I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t.”

 

“I know.”

 

She slid to the floor to sit beside him, legs splayed out in front of her, her hip pressed to his own. She’d told him, before they’d been anything but friends, all about Joffrey and how he had tried to put his hands up her shirt or under her skirt, how he always pushed and then mocked her when she made him stop. He wouldn’t, not ever. Not to anybody. Not to _her._

 

“Hey- I know you wouldn’t. I just felt like I had to say it.”

 

“S’fine.”

 

If she ever- but she wouldn’t. But maybe she would. She’d kissed him, and let him touch her in some places- the caps of her shoulders, the back of her neck, he knees, her face-

 

_Not now, not now. Think of something else._

 

“Do you want to get ice cream? In a bit? I’ve got some money.”

 

Before Sansa, he had not spent any of what Brother E had called his allowance, stuffing it all into a sock that he had shoved deep under his mattress. Everytime he pulled it out, there was some mingled guilt and defiance. Because it was _his_ , Eli had said so. But if he ever needed to give it back, it wasn’t all there anymore.

 

But Sansa liked the little ice cream parlor up the road. She called it retro, and made him share banana splits with her. Sometimes they would pick the weirdest thing they could find on the menu, that Sandor bet nobody but maybe old ladies with blue hair and fake pearls ever bought, and they’d try it together.

 

He’d bought Jeyne Westerling a sundae once too, when she’d come along with the two of them. She’d been all upset over some guy who was supposed to have liked her, but she’d smiled when he made the offer. She still smiled at him in school, and waved at him even if Sansa wasn’t there.

 

Sansa was smiling at him now, bumping her shoulder against his. “Yeah. I’d like that.”


	15. Alayne's Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were getting a little too Sandor POV heavy, and a little too modern AU heavy. So here we are! This one was fun. Had the feeling I could have gotten a bit more detailed, but that's where I've shot myself in the foot before. Tried to do too much too quickly.
> 
> Just re-read Sansa's teaser chapter for Winds of Winter, which inspired this.

“We must be quick- my father will be looking for me. Others too.”

 

He was following her, quick even with the limp plaguing his every other step. How had that happened? How had any of this happened? He was _supposed_ to be dead.

 

It was easy enough to find some quiet corner- the night was still young, the dancing still in full swing. Later on, many of these alcoves and nooks would be occupied, Alayne was sure. Sixty and four knights had been invited to Sweetrobin’s tourney, all of them young and lusty. They had proven that tonight- the knights and their kin, young and old alike had been gallant enough with the Lady Alayne when they’d asked for dances and japed with her, some even bold enough to ask for her favor. She might be bastard born, but she _was_ their Lord Protector’s daughter, and it was well known that little Lord Arryn favored her. But she was not blind to their looks, nor foolish enough not to think that many of them would not find some willing wench by the end of the night.

 

She had only meant to step out on the balcony for a moment, to catch a breath between dances. Perhaps let the cold night air cool her flushed cheeks. There had been heavy footsteps behind her, and Alayne had turned, expecting perhaps to see Ser Harry. She had even had a jape on the tip of her tongue, some such comment about his skill on the field, much like the others that had fallen from her lips as they had danced. He had liked that, she thought. That she made her tongue sharp, though not sharp enough to truly cut a man as assured as her almost-betrothed.

 

It had not been Harry.

 

The man who approached her was large enough to make her uneasy, easily as tall as Lord Royce, the tallest man who had danced with her tonight. His face had been covered, and he had been wearing a hood as well, but somehow she had known.

 

He had not spoken, not when she’d ushered him deeper into the keep, and not now that they were walking briskly down the hallway, torches flickering in their sconces and the sound of their footsteps seeming to grow louder as the sound of music and laughter faded behind them.

 

The sept was not far away- Alayne had been raised to be a septa. Surely it was not wrong to pray with a begging brother. Though what _he_ was doing dressed as a holy brother, she could not say.

 

When they arrived, Alayne moved to the Mother’s little alcove, wishing that she had a candle to leave. When he knelt beside her, she saw that his feet were booted rather than unshod, as some of the holy men liked to go about. That was good, somehow. Alayne thought such men were silly- bare feet would bring you no closer to the gods than booted ones.

 

Even as they knelt, he towered over her. Alayne glanced towards the doorway, towards the long, curving hallway beyond, and saw no one. Everyone would be at the feast. It was early enough in the night that even the children would still be there, even Robert who tired so easily.

 

But still the man did not speak.

 

“Thank you for coming to pray with me, Brother.” The hooded face remained covered and silent, though Alayne thought he was looking at her rather than the likeness of the Mother above them. “Will you not pray with me?”

 

Still no answer. Doubt flooded into her, making her chest feel cold and hollow. Had she been wrong? She had felt so certain when he’d approached her, when she’d seen the way he walked, despite the jerkiness of his gait.

 

No matter. If it was not him, she had done nothing, said nothing to betray herself.

 

“Perhaps you have taken a vow of silence. It’s of no matter; I’ll not ask you to break it. As you may have heard, I’m a pious girl. I’d be honored to speak my prayer, if you’ll only pray along with me in mind and spirit.”

 

Perhaps it was the wine. But it could not be. She’d only had enough to moisten her lips after the dancing- Father had said that tonight was important, with Ser Harry so near. She had needed to catch his interest, and after his rude introduction earlier in the day, when he had been so dismissive of her, Alayne had wanted to remain clearheaded. So it could not be the wine. But she wished that it was. Because when she opened her mouth to begin the prayer, it was a song that came out. The words were as familiar to her as her own name. She had sung it often as a child, and it had been the only song that had come to mind on a night long before this one, well before Alayne Stone had ever existed.

 

When the last note had faded away, the little stone sept seemed as quiet as ever, but for the the hammering of her own heart, loud in her ears. She could not bring herself to look at the man beside her, so she kept her gaze on the Mother’s stone face, smooth, grey, and serene.

 

The seconds ticked by, and the silence rang on for too long. Time was slipping away. Father would look for her, and if not Father, Myranda would miss her soon enough.

 

“Thank you, Brother. I think-”

 

“Little bird.” The murmur was quiet, almost gentle, belying the rasping quality of his voice.

 

Alayne felt her breath catch in her throat, the warmth of tears rising behind her eyes, and for a short moment she forgot herself. “It _is_ \- they said you were dead.”

 

He turned towards her, and she felt herself freeze. They mustn't speak plainly, not even here in the solitude of the sept. This was not the Red Keep, where the very walls were said to have ears, but someone might come looking for her.

 

“No- you must not be so familiar, Brother. I’ve been told I have a pleasant voice.” She strove to keep her words calm, even. As words spoken in a sept should be. She wished she could see his eyes within the slit of his coverings, but she could see only darkness.

 

“Might I- would you remove your covering? It would do me good to see the face of another devout follower of the Seven- there are few enough of us here.” That was true- in part, at least. The Royce’s only prayed when propriety dictated that they must. Alayne herself came to the sept often, but did no more praying than she had to. She did not trust the gods.

 

In the long pause that followed, she thought he might simply get up and leave. Perhaps he was not here for her- no one knew that she was here, knew who she was beneath the plain woollen gown and the dark dye in her hair. No one but Petyr- Father. And he had arrived with a small contingent of other begging brothers as well. She had heard Father speak of their presence just the night before- to warn her to avoid them, or at the very least to ensure that she studied her prayers before she spoke with them.

 

But then his hand came up, the only part of him that was uncovered. They were big hands, callused and darkened by sun, although the skin at his wrist where his robe fell was several shades paler. When he slipped the covering down, he did not touch the hood, so that he might remain covered to anyone who walked through the door behind them.

 

Sandor Clegane looked different than she remembered. The scars were still there, as horrible as they ever had been. But missing was the scowl he had perpetually worn, the mocking twist of the mouth, and the spark of anger in his eyes. His face was not softened by the lack of it- the bones of his face were as prominent as they ever had been, gaunt and shadowed under his cowl. His eyes- they were still hard, if not angry. His look still made her feel far too exposed, as though he could see under her layers of protection, right through to the core of her.

 

But she’d been a child when they’d last met, despite her flowering- a silly, scared little girl. She was a child no longer, and Alayne was bastard-born besides. Bastards were said to grow into adulthood more quickly then trueborn girls.

 

“Thank you, Brother.” Alayne rose to her feet, feeling her knees protesting their contact with the stone floor. The Hound had not covered his face. He looked up at her, still kneeling on the floor, and she wished she could read him somehow. Alayne had grown skilled in the ways of men and their thoughts, but she felt half a girl again as she looked down at him, from a small vantage. His eyes were not much below hers, even now.

 

_I’m not wrong. I can’t be._

 

“Perhaps I will see you again. I often come here to pray, when I cannot sleep.” She swept away, through the stone doorway and back along the hallway, towards the faint sounds of revelry from the dining hall.

  


\--------

  


“Alayne.”

 

“Father.” Alayne stepped forwards further into the solar to kiss her father on the cheek, as she so often did. His smile afterwards spoke of many things. He always said her kisses were too dutiful.

 

“Did you enjoy the feast?”

 

He had not drunk much wine- he never did. He had told her once that he liked to keep sharp and alert. He was one of the few men in the Vale that Alayne had never seen drunk, not even a little. Not even on his wedding night.

 

“I did, very much. The lemoncake in particular.” She allowed a smile to slip onto her face. He would like that. She knew that the beautiful, enormous lemoncake had been for her, though it had taken every lemon they had in the Vale. It was Sweetrobin’s tourney in name, but Alayne knew that it was truly for her. The lemoncake, the festivities, and Harry the Heir, all here for her. Father always tried so hard to keep her happy.

 

“And.. the dancing?”

 

He was watching her closely, sipping at a cup that smelled of mint. Alayne felt the high fluttering rise in her belly under his gaze. But that was to be expected- she had met her soon-to-be betrothed tonight, after all.

 

“The dancing was quite enjoyable. You were right, Father. Many men asked for a dance, and for my favor.”

 

“I saw you dancing with Ser Harry as well- twice was it?”

 

“Yes- twice, though he asked for a third. I told him my dances were spoken for.”

 

Father smiled, showing his small white teeth. He had very good teeth. “And?

 

“I think I was able to charm him.” It felt strange to say. That _she_ could have beguiled a man, that she had been able to choose her words just so, to pull him in. “I asked him about his children, and about their mothers.”

 

“Did you?” Father’s dark eyes were dancing over the rim of his mug. “And what did he think of that?”

 

Alayne allowed her smile to grow wider, and perhaps a little silly. “He liked it, I think. I japed with him, and he said he didn’t know that I was clever. I think he liked that.”

 

Father put the mug down on his little table with a chuckle and a thunk. “Of course you are clever. Any daughter of mine should be.”

 

He gestured for her to sit beside him, in the little padded chair she had claimed as her own the first time she had sat here with him. She did so, taking care to graciously smooth her skirts over her thighs. It was a warm green wool, that Father had commissioned special for this feast, and several more for the festivities in the following days. Not too fine, of course. All of the late Lady Lysa’s wardrobe was still up in the Eyrie. It would not do, Father had said, for the lords and ladies to see his bastard daughter traipsing around in his dead wife’s clothes. So it was the woolens, for now. But they were always pretty.

 

“I spoke with one of those begging brothers, Father. I did not know that they would be attending the feast.” He had likely seen Alayne go off with him- or Lothor Brune had, which was nearly the same thing. Ser Lothor had been instructed to watch Alayne before, to ensure no harm befell her during such festivities.

 

He raised an eyebrow. “I invited them, of course. As was expected. I did not think that they would come.”

 

“Well, at least one of them did. He had taken a vow of silence, I think, because he would not answer me when I spoke. But we took a moment to pray together.”

 

“Ah.” Father sat forward in his chair, turning to face Alayne. She could smell the mint on his breath. In his larger chair, he sat higher than she. “What did Harry think of that, sweetling? I’m told he prefers his women lusty to pious.”

 

She smiled again. “Oh, when I returned, he asked for that third dance. When I refused him, he asked where I’d been. I told him it was no matter of his. He asked if I had been with a man, and I did not say no.” She had not been lying, after all. Sandor Clegane was indeed a man, though she had not been with him in the manner that she had implied to Harry. “I was only gone for a few moments, not long enough for him to suspect much.”

 

“Much can happen in a few moments, Alayne.”

 

_More than you know, I hope._

 

He sat back in his chair, studying her as he stroked his small beard. “But perhaps you were wise. Did he ask for your favor?”

 

“He did.” The fire was warm on the back of her legs, though it was across the room. The servants had stoked it high, to ward off the chill of the night.

 

“Before or after?

 

“Before. But he asked once again after, because he said I was cruel not to dance with him at least once more. I told him it was already promised, of course.”

 

Father’s small smile came back at that. “Have you decided to whom you will give your favor?”

 

“Not yet, Father. There were many worthy knights who danced with me tonight, but I must think on it.”

 

It was the first lie that she’d told.

 

“ _We_ must think on it. But not tonight, I think. On the morrow perhaps. Our Sweetrobin was asking for you. Shall I tell him you will be spending the night with the Royce girl?”

 

She made a face, and nodded. She disliked sharing a bed with Robert. He would nuzzle at her breasts, and call her Mother. Once, he’d even wet the bed.

 

“I’ll be in my own chambers, though.” Myranda had looked as though her bed would already be occupied. Not any of the knights of course- no one her lord father might marry her to, no one who might spread talk. But there had been a comley serving man Alayne had seen her friend speaking with, teats pushed out and a smile gracing her small mouth.

 

“Off with you then. We’ll talk on the morrow.”

 

Alayne nodded, and took her leave.

  


\--------

  


It was in the small hours of the night that she found herself making her way towards the sept, wrapped in a plain gown, warmer than the one she’d shed in her chambers, made of thick brown wool with no embroidery to speak of. What servants were still awake were moving through the halls, paying her no mind. Alayne was known to be a troubled sleeper, and often walked the halls at night.

 

He was already there when she reached the sept, a large dark shape before the statue of the Warrior. She allowed herself to sink to her knees beside him. When she glanced up, she saw that he had already lowered his face-cloth, allowing it to hang slackly around his neck. He was watching her closely with those eyes, steel grey and penetrating. She had to swallow before she spoke, so dry was her throat.

 

“They said you’d died. Been killed. But then they saw you again, in the Saltpans, but I thought they must’ve been wrong. That you really were dead.”

 

“Why’s that?” It was like hearing a dream talk. She _had_ dreamt of him, confusing dreams, that had frightened her as much as they’d excited her. But she felt no fear now.

 

“Because who could forget killing you?” He was one of the most fearsome fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, even forgetting his face and build.

 

He looked down to the stone feet of the Warrior before him. He’d even brought a little candle, lumpy and malformed, to light at its feet. “It was never me. Some fool with a helm, that was all.”

 

“Oh.” She supposed that made sense. But-

 

“So you really are-”

 

“Yes.” His large hands fisted in the rough cloth of his robe. “Or I was, at least.”

 

He was looking over at her again, and she kept her back straight under the strength of his gaze. It almost appeared he was looking for something, though what Alayne could not say. When he turned his head abruptly, she wondered whether or not he’d found it. She had almost gathered the courage to ask him, when he swung around to face her fully, jumping back a little then the folds of his robe nearly brushed the small flickering candle.

 

“Littlefinger-”

 

“Was a father to me. No more.” Perhaps he had wanted more- but he would not take it. Her maidenhood was all the proof they had that Sansa Stark’s first husband had left her innocent. When Sansa married again, they would no doubt rely on the bloody sheets, and Harry’s testimony to prove the invalidity of her former marriage.

 

But Sansa Stark was not here. And perhaps she would not have to marry again. Not so soon, anyway.

 

The Hound was still looking at her sharply, as though he did not quite believe her. She was a better liar now, and perhaps he knew that. But she was not lying.

 

When he finally spoke once more, his voice was so quiet that she could scarce hear it, despite the silence of the little sept.

 

“I asked you once if you wanted to go home.”

 

He had asked Sansa Stark that question, not Alayne, but she nodded anyway. “You did.”

 

“Do you want to go home now?”

 

There it was. The choice she thought she’d lost forever, though it was different now than it had been then. There was no kingly brother to run to- _but Alayne Stone had no brothers_ \- no mother, no one left. But-

 

“Yes,” She breathed the word, feeling her eyes beginning to sting. “Oh, yes.” She could do this the right way, with the lords of the north, the way her father, her _true_ father would have. Perhaps the Vale would help anyway- Petyr had only one year left of regency, and if Lord Robert was still alive then, perhaps _he_ would help her. He had always said he wanted to marry her, though she doubted the boy knew what that meant.

 

The Hound rose to his feet then, and Alayne gasped when he took her by the elbow to draw her up as well. His touch seemed to make this night more real. It still seemed half a dream- how often had she dreamed of just this? Of _him_ , coming to take her away like he’d once promised. Only, she had never thought to see him dressed as a holy man.

 

“Do you still mean it?”

 

He looked down at her, red rimmed eye standing out starkly in his scarred face, narrowed at her along with the other. “What?”

 

“That no one will ever hurt me again?” _Or else he’d kill them, he told me. But holy brothers do not kill any more than they drink. He was at the feast though, when the others were not. He never took any vows before._

 

He looked down at her for a long moment, hand still firm on her elbow. “I meant it,-”

 

“ _Alayne_.”

 

“Alayne then. Come,” He turned away, pulling her behind him.

 

“What, now?” He could not mean now, surely. Not with the snows on the mountain, and with not even a copper in her pocket.

 

“When then?” He did not wait for her to answer, pulling her along the empty halls. The torches were guttering, flickering as he strode on, pulling her past them. Perhaps the servants had finished their work for the night, for they met no one as they moved through the quiet keep. Thankfully, for he had not replaced his face covering.

 

To her surprise, they emerged into the main hall, where the remnants of the feast still lay on the trestle tables. The reason for the servent’s seeming carelessness lay alongside them- knights and lordlings in rough wool and fine velvet alike, sleeping off their drink side by side, heads laid out on their arms, or even resting atop their plates.

 

“What are you doing?” She glanced fearfully about, though she had been whispering.

 

“Keeping my promise.” He’d knelt beside the nearest of the men, a short rotund knight with a red nose, and a sword near dragging on the floor from his hip as he slumped over the table.

 

She glanced around as the Hound took up the dagger the sleeping man had been eating with, wickedly sharp by the quick way he drew it through the man’s belt. Harry was not here. She almost wished that he were. It would be poetic, almost, if the sword the Hound used to defend her was from her reluctant suitor. Though perhaps it was best that it was not- she might still have to marry him after all. One could not see into the future.

 

No one stirred as Clegane rose to his full height, sword and scabbard in hand, cut sword belt dropping to the ground at his feet. He took her arm again as he drew her out of the hall, gripping it as though he were marching a prisoner to their cell rather than escorting a lady.

 

The stables proved just as quiet as the hall, with only one cold-looking stable boy shivering under a blanket. He woke for a moment when they entered, but she simply drew out of sight behind the Hound’s bulk. On seeing the robe of a holy brother, the boy only rolled back over, drawing his thin blanket tighter about him.

 

Deeper in the stables, she saw a stallion that she recognized- large and black, snorting a puff of steam through its nose, and pawing the ground at their approach. He calmed when Clegane drew a hand over his flank, and approached with what must be his tack and saddle.

 

“Wait-”

 

He turned back to look at her.

 

She gestured down at herself. “I’m not dressed- I don’t have anything.” Even now, the cold air was beginning to seep through her gown.

 

“It’s all here.” He shoved another set of gear at her, and pushed her towards one of the other horses, smaller and kinder looking than Stranger, for which she was grateful. The horse startled awake, raising its head as she stumbled closer. “There’s a cloak in that stall. Too big for you, but that’s all to the bloody good.”’

 

The robe he gestured towards smelled of horse and of sweat, but Alayne pulled it on anyway. She glanced back and saw the Hound pulling blankets and some rough-looking sacks off the same shelf that the tack had come from.

 

“Food?”

 

“Aye. What your lordly _father_ saw fit to give us. Bread, onions, some salt beef.” His mouth had twisted in that old familiar way, and she was almost pleased to see it.

 

“Won’t the other brothers-”

 

“They’ll beg some more. That’s what they do.” He was fastening the sword he had taken about his hips, using the length of rope that served as his belt.

 

“Did you take the vows?” The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she wished to take them back.

 

His hands did not pause in their activities. “Does it matter?”

 

No. Not really. And he had broken one already, if she had guessed correctly about his silence. She ducked her head, turning back to saddle the horse, stepping back to allow him to tie the sacks of food to the saddle.

 

“The guards at the gate?”

 

He shrugged. “Couple of begging brothers is what we’ll look like. Clansmen won’t bother us either. They know enough to know we don’t carry anything, and they don’t hunt for sport. It's the shadow cats we’ll have to worry about.”

 

And Petyr, once he found that she was gone. His plans depended on having Sansa Stark in his pocket. “We’ll have to hurry then.” He turned away, reaching for a ragged cloak so large that it could only belong to him. “Wait-”

 

He turned back, the impatience written on his face. “What is it girl? Dawn’s coming, you know that as well as I do.”

 

“Here.” Reaching into her sleeve, she pulled the length of ribbon from her around her wrist. It was an dusky orange one, that had looked well in Alayne’s chestnut hair. She held it out to him, the ends dangling over her outstretched fingers. He just stared at it.

 

“I was meant to give this to somebody, to a knight. For the tournament. Take it.”

 

“I’m no knight.” But he hadn't turned away either.

 

“Alayne Stone was no lady. But they called her than anyway.” She’d acted like one after all, caring for her father’s affairs, and for the young lord of the Vale.

 

He did not look at her as he took it, but she felt a thrill of pride nonetheless when he tied it around the hilt of his too-small, stolen sword, the orange of it jumping out against the plainness of his attire. Then, he swept his cloak over it, hiding the bright spot of color, and approached to lift her onto her horse.


	16. Bound With Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was picturing a 50s kinda vibe here, even though very little wound up in my final draft.

“He’s leaving you alone today, is he?”

 

“The same as yesterday.” She was walking beside him, her steps stately and measured, with her hands clasped in front of her. Positioned in such a way, the girl looked almost like a doll; porcelain fair, with her bright hair and belted dress looking all the more colorful in contrast. The grounds of the Lannister estate were impressive, with sweeping lawns and rose gardens, boasting views that Sansa had sighed over when she’d first seen them. He’d been there when she and her family had arrived. It was supposed to have been for the summer. But she was still here, two years later.

 

Some of the other staff thought to mock him in sometimes, with how he trailed the girl on her walks almost every day. None were brave enough to do it more than once. And even if they had been, he’d have come anyway. She needed this time, she must. Needed  _ him _ . Or else she’d have gone fucking insane weeks back. He would have, if he’d been her. Sometimes Sandor thought he still might.

 

For all that had happened on these grounds, it was peaceful enough now. As usual, Sandor allowed her to lead as she would. Today, they climbed to the tops of the cliffs, taking the stone stairs slowly. These were not the cliffs that Robert had talked about jumping off in his youth, plunging into the water below. These were higher, much higher, with nothing but jagged rocks and crashing foam beneath them. Several large stones formed a barrier of a kind, near to the edge. She sat down on one of the stones, looking like something out of a painting. Even here, alone with him and almost a mile from the main house, she was dressed impeccably. Her hair was rolled and set, her dress fit like a second skin. Only her shoes broke the scene, thick leather ones laced tightly to the ankle.  The sea rolled below, just loud enough that the noise drifted up to them here.

 

Did she know what she looked like? Did she try to pose herself so, or did it come naturally to a girl like her? Setting the stage, for any fool who cared to look at her. Sandor remained several paces back, close enough to hear her when she spoke. “He’s busy today. Just like he was the day before.” Her tone was cool, her face expressionless as she looked out over the water. With any other woman, he might have thought her a dissatisfied wife, angry over a straying husband.

 

“Better that he is. Better he’s busy with them than with you.” He had not had to carry the girls out for some time. That task had been relegated to Boros now, who was good for nothing else. From what Sandor had heard, the boy preferred to keep his girls close at hand, housing them in the guest house for as long as he kept them, and seeing they were fit for no more of their work when he was through. Not that the long parade of bloodied girls had spared the little bird. He sent for her every few nights, and it was on these nights that Sandor followed, and waited. He had not had to carry her back to her rooms as of yet, but it had been a near thing at times.

 

She always thanked him when they arrived back at her door. Her fingers on his arm, her thanks, it always brought a sharp pain in his chest. Almost like some invisible hand was squeezing him, tightening the fingers until he couldn’t breathe.

 

“Yes.” She stroked a hand along the edge of her stone seat, turning to face away from him, head bowing slightly. He could see the side of her neck, milky pale where it joined her shoulder. For several long moments, she sat like that, not speaking. Sandor allowed himself to look, for that was his task. To watch her. To frighten her too, he had no doubt. That was surely why the boy had encouraged his dogging her footsteps so often, that his face was distasteful to her. She seemed to like his ears well enough though. She spoke to him here, quiet and honest on her walks. Perhaps he was the only one she  _ could _ speak her mind to. She had his secrets, and now he had hers. They were bound together with truth, and each of them knew it.

 

“Sometimes I think-” She laughed, a sound which he didn’t often hear from her. “Do you ever wonder?” She did not turn to look at him, but her head came up, her shoulders drawing back as she straightened.

 

He did not answer. He often did not. She would say what she needed to say, and he would hear it.

 

“Flying. It would be so wonderful. To fly away sometime.” Her hands slipped down to lightly press palm down against the rock. The high afternoon sun outlined her silhouette in gold, turned her hair into flame.

 

He took a step closer, watching her. “Not here.”

 

“Why not? As good a place as any, I would think.” But she rose to her feet, turning as though she would continue her walk. But she stood still, looking straight ahead for a long moment.

 

“Have you ever wondered?”

 

Her rooms in the house were tall and airy, with great arched windows, though he had never seen more than a glimpse of them. 

 

“Dogs fly no better than wolves.” She looked up at his words, as though it took her aback that he had spoken at all.

 

“Am I a wolf? Father said so, but I think he was wrong. He must have been.” She looked down at the ground, at her leather-clad feet. “And you’re not a dog.”

 

He did not answer. Turning slowly, she faced him fully, looking him in the face for the first time since-

 

There were no tears on her cheeks, no blood staining her lips cherry red.

 

It was he who looked away first. Fumbling in his breast pocket, Sandor pulled the pack of cigarettes out, smacking the bottom against the palm of his hand. The drag of it was a welcome distraction. So welcome that he nearly pulled out another right then. Instead, he held the pack out to her, the top hanging open. She was not looking at his face now, her gaze was fixed on his offering, a little wrinkle growing between her brows.

 

“I’ve never had one before.”

 

“I know.”

 

She glanced up then, and it was nearly as hard to hold her gaze now as it had been previously even with the haze of smoke between them.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“It should.”

 

Biting her lip, she kept her eyes on him, although he did not lower his arm. It was a little startling how much of a woman she looked now. There was little roundness left in her face; no softness to relax the sharp angles and delicate curves of the bones beneath the skin.

 

Marriage had aged her.

 

She finally accepted the smoke, holding it to her lips and waiting expectantly until he lit it for her. As he had anticipated, she choked and spluttered her way through the thing, though she doggedly clung to it, refusing to hand it over when he offered to finish it for her. She mimicked him when she finally finished, grinding the remainder into the dirt under her heel before sitting herself on the rocks again.

 

Sandor lowered himself to sit as well. His fingers itched to reach for the pack that he had stowed away in his pocket once more.

 

The silence went on, Sansa looking down at her feet rather than at him. When she did look up, she did not meet his eyes. “Shall we go back then?”


	17. Bad TV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mundane, but I like exploring that a little sometimes.

“The fuck are you  _ watching? _ ”

 

Sansa glanced over towards the door, trying to muster up a smile, but it turned into a cough. “Oh, hey. Is that food?” She sat up, trying to see if she could smell what was in the brown paper bag he had.

 

“Yeah.” He put it down on the end table, next to the little alarm clock with the blinking red numbers. She closed her eyes as his hand came down over them, palm against the skin of her forehead. “Shit. You’re still burning up.”

 

“I feel better today though. We could keep going, if we wanted, it’s OK, I promise.” But her eyes were drooping in the darkness behind his hand, and she had to suppress another cough.

 

“I already got another day.”

 

“Oh-” Sansa frowned. “You didn’t have to. I- I’ll help, once we get there, I’ll get a job or something-”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Shitty hotels like this are cheap.”

 

She wanted to protest when his hand left her, leaving her face feeling too damp and too cold for comfort. But she opened her eyes anyway, frown deepening as Sandor muted the TV. “I was watching that.”

 

“With your eyes shut?”

 

“I was  _ listening _ to it.”

 

Sandor pushed the bag at her, and Sansa sat up, pushing her hands inside. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch up when she saw the little white containers. “Is there-”

 

“I know what you like.” He’d settled on the double bed next to her, and Sansa frowned when she saw that he’d not taken his boots off. But she didn’t say anything about it.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sandor laying over top of the covers and Sansa underneath them, passing food back and forth, filling their styrofoam plates. Sansa pushed her sweaty hair back over her shoulders, watching the little figures on the screen moving back and forth.

 

“Did you see him? I mean, did he call you today? Or anything?” She’d slept through most of the day before, and through part of the morning as well. After two days in the car, her cough growing steadily worse, she had needed the rest.

 

“Nah. I told you, I don’t think he cared anymore. About either of us. He’s got some new girl and after last year..” Sandor shrugged, and Sansa felt his shoulder brush yours. “Didn’t care much for me anymore.”

 

“I can’t believe that though. That Joff would let it go so easy. We just- left. He wouldn’t like that.”

 

Sandor spoke through a mouthful of chicken. “Well, he didn’t call me. And I’d have seen if we were being followed. Maybe he just let us go.” He did sound a bit doubtful.

 

“Well, let's not talk about it. Let’s just eat.” They had a soft bed to lay on, and hot food to eat- that was better than they’d had for the past few days.

 

“You  _ asked.” _

 

Sansa pushed more food into her mouth, so she didn’t have to answer. When she had finally finished chewing, wincing a little as the huge mouthful of food slid down her throat, she spoke up again. “Where were you? You were gone for a while, and I thought you just wanted to get food.” She had woken briefly when he’d put a hand on her shoulder, telling her he would be back, but she'd woken to an empty room, one that had stayed empty for hours.

 

“Moved all my shit to another bank. Just in case.” Sandor clicked the sound back on, changing the channel to some movie with lots of explosions and lurid, fake looking blood. Sansa stared at the screen, setting her half finished food aside. She was feeling tired again, even after all that sleeping she’d just done. She wanted a shower, wanted to scrub her teeth and brush her hair, to change into something other than these stupid jeans that were irritating her skin.

 

“I mean it. When we get there, I’ll pay you back. I’ll get a job.”

 

He just shrugged again. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“You didn’t tell me much about it. This place, where we’re going. Why do you even have it?”

 

“Dunno.” He tossed a fortune cookie ar Sansa, but she pushed it away. She was already full enough- the thought of more food, even a little, made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. “Wanted someplace, I guess. To fuck off if I ever wanted.”

 

“When did you get it?”

 

“Year ago.” Sansa waited, but he did not elaborate, and she didn’t feel confident enough to push. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it, just turning up the volume on the movie until the room seemed full of shouting and gunfire. Sansa turned her eyes to the screen, pulling the covers up and pulling herself down until she was covered. On the fuzzy screen, the big man Sansa though must be the hero of the flick was shouting at a woman with long brown hair and a tank top, gripping her arm and shaking her. The woman wasn’t wearing a bra, her breasts moving freely under the shirt. Sansa bit her lip.

 

“Sandor?”

 

He looked at her.

 

“This isn’t- I didn’t want it to go like this. I wanted- I thought- I’m sorry.” She felt tired and sick and small under the blankets, swallowing another scratchy cough.

 

Sandor just looked at her. He didn’t seem to be angry, or upset. But there had been promises between them that had developed over the past few weeks, as they had spent more and more time together, Though they had been unspoken and deep, between their hurried exit and Sansa’s sickness, those promises had not come to fruition.

 

“Don’t worry about it, little bird. Just get better.” His hand settled on Sansa’s bare shoulder, and she let him draw her in close, pressing her face against the side of his hip.

 

She was just beginning to feel herself drifting off despite the renewed blast of screaming, when his hand settled in her hair, his fingers pressing through the tangled mat of it to press warm against her scalp.

 

“Don’t,” she whispered, with her eyes still shut. “I’m disgusting.”

 

“No you’re not. Go to sleep.” His hand stayed where it was, moving softly against her skin, tugging gently on the tangled hair.


	18. Peace and Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus. I started so many chapters that I never finished, and posted NOTHING. So now my goal is to try and finish as many of them as I could.

The cold air felt nearly solid in her throat. She stumbled, thin branches slapping at her exposed skin. Her ankle throbbed- the heels, the goddamn heels- but Sansa hobbled on, moving as fast as the dress allowed her.

 

They were shouting, hooting behind her, enjoying their game. Her eye began to sting and Sansa swiped a hand across, trying to push away the tears that were fogging her vision. She knew she was making too much noise, but quiet meant slow and that would be worse. She knew what he’d done, what he would do to her. She’d seen Violet after.

 

The thought seemed to give her another burst of speed, but then the cold air was whipping past her, and the ground rising towards her in a giddy rush. She brought her hands up to catch herself, and hit the ground hard. The twigs and pebbles beneath the light layer of snow stung her palms, but she pushed herself to her feet, heart pounding.

 

The voices were getting closer.

  
  


\-------

  
  


He rolled his eyes at the laughter from the woods. Sandor had heard a gunshot a few minutes back, but they kept carrying on with their noise. Drunk, probably. And unlikely to get anything if they kept up their hooting and hollering. Every deer for miles around would have bolted as soon as they'd started up.

 

A fresh burst of raised voices rent the chilly air. He scowled, reaching up to pull the hat further down. Another time, he might've gone after them, told them to fuck off. But it was dark and cold, and the would-be-hunters sounded too drunk to trust that they wouldn't mistake him for some animal. He'd already been shot once in his life, and that was enough for anybody.

 

If they got closer- then he'd deal with it. The axe was a good weight in his hand, and he shut out the voices, bringing his other hand around to grip the shaft as well. Raise, swing, chop. It was a good rhythm to fall into. Wood continued to pile haphazardly beside him.

 

It was a good life here. Peaceful. Quiet. Or at least, it usually was. What a man needed after too many years of noise and confusion. And pain, always that. He still bought his whiskey and his wine, but it disappeared slower now. He hadn't put too much thought into what he would do when the money ran out. When it happened (and it would happen, there was only so careful a man could be with his money), he would handle it then. Until that day, he need only chop his wood and hunt what he could, on some land that belonged to him and some that didn't. He'd been trying to build a sort of shed in the small clear area behind the cabin. Something to put stores of wood in maybe. It was shit work, and the wobbly structure had fallen over twice now, but he didn't mind that. When it collapsed, he would take out the nails, sort the lumber, and start again. It left no room for thinking, so the damn thing could fall over as many times as it pleased. He didn't think it would this time though. He'd built it lower and sturdier, and spent hours using up his limited data to watch tutorials.

 

Raise. Chop.

 

Sandor was sweating, and he almost wanted to remove the hat, to leave it with the coat that he'd abandoned by the cabin stairs.

 

It was then that he heard the noise. A crashing, blundering sort of noise.

 

It took no more than a moment to stride to the cabin stairs, where the shotgun was leaning. The ax rested against his boot, a solid reassuring weight. Let it come, whatever it was. The blood was high and thin in his head, pounding in his ears, and it felt as though cool water had exploded in his veins.

 

Let it come. He was ready.

 

But it wasn’t a bear that burst into the clearing, or a moose or deer, or any other such creature. It was a girl, and if that were not enough, she did not look the sort of girl might be expected to come crashing through the woods. For one, she was struggling along on improbably high heels, and for another the dress she wore showed too much flesh to be meant for anything other than the indoors, on a night like tonight.

 

The woman seemed to register him at the same moment that he realized who, or rather what, she was. She stopped, arms hovering in front of herself as though to ward him off, long copper hair half fallen out of its elaborate coil and moving with her shuddering breaths.

 

Hastily, he bent to drop the shotgun on the ground. The heady rush of adrenaline had not been shocked away by her appearance, and his hands seemed too light as he mimicked her pose, raising them before him, palm up.

 

“Hey-”

 

But she didn’t wait for any kind of reassurance. Rather, she began her limping run again, directly for him. One hand reached towards him as though to grab his arm, although she stopped short of touching him. The other was pointing, frantically, at the gun he had dropped. Her breath was coming in erratic pants, and she seemed too winded to speak, but there was no mistaking her gestures, or the crazed look in her eyes, the painted grimace of her red lips over her small, white teeth.

 

The gun was back in his hand, and he turned from the girl to face the shadowed woods. There had to be- no animal, not for this. People. It had to be people.

 

The crunching of bodies through the undergrowth was approaching, and the wild laughter had started up again.

 

A hand had snatched at his sleeve. She was still gasping wildly, shoulders heaving with every breath, but when her lips moved, trying to form the words, some sounds began to come out as well, recognizable words this time.

 

“Please- please, I-” Dark tears were running down her cheeks, forming rings and streaks under her eyes, which stood out starkly above them, the whites a severe contrast to the flush and mess of her face.

 

There was no time- whoever they were, whoever had put this fear into her- and it was the fear of death, he’d seen that look before- they would be upon them soon.

 

“No time.” The flesh of her arm was cold in his grip, even through the gloves. He shoved her towards the small stairs into the cabin. There was a sharp crack, the girl cried out, and for a wild moment, Sandor thought he’d somehow snapped her ankle. But then she stumbled up the stairs, pushing off of his arm, and he could see that one of her towering heels had snapped.

 

“Get in- get in and lock it! Don’t open it, not for anybody except me.”

 

There was just enough time for him to see her pull herself inside, and a flash of her smeared face and wild hair before the door crashed closed behind her. Then, he turned back, to see them come out of the woods.

  
  


\-------

  
  


This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t do this, not to her, his father had said so before he dies. They couldn’t kill her, or hurt her either- not where anyone could see, not while it was her family’s money that they were using.

 

But this all felt too real to be anything but.

 

A painful heat on her calves had her gasping and jumping around, but it was only a wood stove. When had she backed up close to it? She couldn’t remember. A quick glance around the small space showed nothing which might be of use- a table and chair, a large bed, a haphazard pile of firewood-

 

The poker, now. It was iron, and looked heavy. Sansa snatched it up, gripping it hard in both hands. It wouldn’t last- he had a  _ gun _ , and it had been pointed right at her- but it was better than nothing.

 

She faced the door squarely. If this was all some trick- if Ramsey knew the scarred man, had sent him here- or if he shot him, killed him like he’d killed Violet. Like they said he’d killed his own father. He wouldn’t be taking her back, or  _ playing _ with her, she’d make sure of that. A bullet to the head was a quicker way, with less pain and less terror. He wouldn’t actually kill her like that, not unless she made him.

 

And she would. She had to.

 

There was the rumble of voices on the other side of the door, and Sansa’s eyes flew to the latch- closed. She didn’t remember doing that either. Trying to still her panicked breathing, she edged towards the door. Listening.

  
  


\-------

  
  


There were four of them. Only one gun that Sandor could see, gripped in the hand of the short, thickly built man talking to him now.

 

“... my wife. We had a bit too much to drink at dinner, you see, and we think she took something else in the bathroom. We were heading home when she said she felt sick and made us stop the car, and then she ran off.” The man smiled. It would have been a charming smile but for the gun in his hand, which he had not set down, nor lowered. “You understand, of course. She’s not dressed for the weather, and she might hurt herself.”

 

He felt his eyes narrow. There was no question that the man was lying- he’d seen the effects of drugs before, had felt them himself. The girl inside was out of her mind with fear, whatever else may be in her veins came secondary to that. And then there was that gun. The two men standing behind the short one were not smiling. One looked dully up at him, blinking through a curtain of lank blonde hair, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The other two were shifting on their feet, gloved hands clenching in seeming nervousness of excitement. He had thought they would be drunk, and perhaps he was not wrong. But whatever the three others had taken, the man who had spoken to him was too sober for his liking.

 

When he did not move, the smiling man took a step forward, further from the tangle of trees marking the edge of the woods. “Thank you for sheltering her. You’re a good man.” That smile widened. “But we’ll be collecting her now.”

 

“No.”

 

The man took another step forward. The bright smile on his face had not faded. “No?”

 

“No.” 

 

The blur of the man’s hand coming up seemed slow- almost leisurely, though it could not be. The shotgun in Sandor’s hand was already partially raised, and it seemed all too easy to raise it higher, pulling the trigger smooth as butter. The man in front of him cried out, clutching at his arm. The brown coat he wore was stained with red, and the shoulder was a mess of gore and muscle. The gun fell from his hand in a pretty arc, and he began to move towards it.

 

A familiar hot streak buzzed past his ear, and he dropped into a crouch. The lank haired man had a small, snub nosed pistol, pulled from the depths of his pockets, and was pointing it at Sandor with shaking hands, his mouth open in a silent scream. The damn shotgun- he dropped it, diving forwards and to the right as another shot went off. he sound of shattering glass seemed distant, as did the high pitched scream from the cabin. His shoulder slammed hard into the man he had shot- the bastard had dropped to his knees, reaching for his dropped gun with his free, bloodied hand. The impact sent him reeling, prone in the snow, and then the gun was in his hands.

 

Rise. Aim.

 

The lank-haired man dropped, more bright red staining the powder white of the layer of snow. 

 

Step sideways- get between the others and the newly fallen gun. Point.

 

“Leave now.” He had meant to shout it, but it came out quiet, somehow. The other two men had grouped around their fallen companion, trying to staunch the flow of blood. They were screaming something, shouting words at him that he could not understand. Maybe he would later.

 

But whatever they were saying, they either had no more weapons, or didn’t feel like pressing their luck. The two whole men had hauled their friend to his feet, were pulling him backwards into the woods.

 

Then, the clearing was empty, and he was pointing the gun at nothing. A swift glance around showed no movement, revealed no sound but the fumbling of the men’s retreat. His gaze fell on the dead man. His eyes had been open, mouth still partially agape, but both were covered by his own blood now. Crouching, Sandor snatched the gun from where it lay beside his slack hand. The shotgun- but then in was unloaded now.

 

The garbled sound of the men’s retreat was still too close for comfort when he rapped on the door. “Girl- open up. It’s me.”

 

For a brief moment, he considered the idiocy of the statement. But then the door cracked, and he could see the wide eyes looking out at him. They somehow grew even wider, traveling their way down his torso, and Sandor wondered if he had blood on him, or if it was the guns she feared.

 

“Open up- they’re gone, but we need to make sure.”

 

She did, stepping back quickly from the door once it was open. It seemed safe enough to turn his back to her, so he did so, closing and latching the door behind him. The two guns in his hand- safeties on, safeties on- were put down on the table for the moment as he turned to face her. She was holding the fire poker in one hand as she stared at him. He held both hands palm out to her.

 

“I’m not gonna hurt you. They’re gone, I promise.” Whatever the promise of a stranger was worth.

 

For a long moment, she only blinked at him, knuckles tightening around the haft. Then, it was clattering to the ground, and she threw herself forward with a surprising amount of force. He had just enough time to catch her, and then her arms were around him and she was sobbing- big, shuddery, hysterical sobs.

 

Taking her by the elbows, Sandor steered her towards the bed, pausing by the table to pocket the two guns while the girl clung to him. One there, he sat her down, pulling his quilt up to wrap around her. She had to be freezing, in that dress.

 

“Did they- are you hurt?”

 

But she didn’t answer. Just sobbed even harder, clutching the blanket , thankfully, instead of him.

 

“Right.” His phone was in the bedside table, as it always was. Pulling it out, he dialed, raising it as he glanced warily out the window. 

 

He had just told the tinny voice where they were when the girl looked up, the pale dot of her face standing starkly out against the mess of her hair and the dark blanket.

 

“Is he dead?” She said it in almost a whisper, as though to say it louder would draw the men back. When he did not answer, she surged forward, the quilt falling away from her in a tumble, both hands clutching his arm, trying to claw the phone away from his ear. Her tears had stopped.

 

“Tell me! Tell me he’s dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic actually started off as a few lines of prompt that I wrote for myself like 3 months back:
> 
> Okay, plot: Sansa in woods, being hunted by Ramsay and co. Sandor has teeny tiny cabin in woods, and is outside chopping wood when she runs up to him. Sansa in lbd, all dressed up for a date night that never happened.


	19. She Never Wanted to Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the song from the latest episode got into my head. Didn't show up as much in the writing as I thought it might, but that was where this started.

Sansa sipped the wine. It was arbor gold, the finest vintage to be found in the Seven Kingdoms- and likely the finest to be had for some time, with the winter coming.

 

“My queen.” Lord Davos bowed slightly, and Sansa tried to find a smile for him. It would not come. “King Stannis is asking for you- the delegation from the Aerie will be arriving shortly, and it is his wish that you greet them together.”

 

“Of course.” Sansa rose to her feet, and Lord Davos hastened to offer her his arm. That almost did make her smile. “Lord Robert will be bringing his family, will he not? Lady Lysa? I expect Lord Petyr will be arriving as well- it was he who wrote the letter announcing their visit.” It had also been he who had taken to writing Sansa about Robert- Sweetrobin, as he was apparently called by his mother, Lord Baelish’s wife. In his letters, the boy was strong and gentle, more apt to be found with a book than with a sword in his hand. But other informants gave different answers, called the boy sickly rather than gentle, and temperamental rather than strong. And by all sources, he was far too attached to his mother. But time would tell, as it always did.

 

“Are you well, my Queen?” Sansa turned to look at him- her husband’s Hand looked more peasant than noble, and was, by his own account. He had told Sansa the story of his rise before, before she had been left behind at Dragonstone with Shireen.

 

“As well as can be expected, my lord.” Sansa rested her free hand on her belly, to make her meaning plain. “It is a tiring state.”

 

Davos nodded, but it was clear that he was not satisfied. Her husband let her be when she was with child, for which Sansa was heartily grateful. It was a good life, here at the capitol. Stannis treated her fairly, if not gently, and his clear love for Steffon and Gemma were enough to make her feel almost soft towards him. Life was good. On most days.

 

“The children have been asking for you. Shireen as well- she’s been in a state, with Lord Robert on his way, and Prince Trystane already here.”

 

“Does she like him still? Now that they’ve had time together?” Sansa tried to remember when she had last spoken with Shireen alone- some weeks ago, it had to be. Time passed slowly this time of year, oozing past like syrup.

 

“Aye. She likes him well enough. No great love between them, but they seem to get on alright. He brought her a gown from Sunspear, as a gift. She’s been fretting over whether to wear it tonight or not.”

 

“Doesn’t she like it?” Sansa had been sent a gift from Prince Duran a moon or so after she had been wed, a gown of smooth, light sand silks. Shireen had always admired it when she’d been a child.

 

“Oh, she likes it.” Davos slowed his step as they reached the stairs, and she was grateful- she was only a few moons along in her pregnancy, but found it hard to lift her feet from one stair to another. “But if she wears it tonight, to the feast welcoming Lord Robert, she’ll have to work out whether she’s favoring Trystane or prettying herself for Robert. I don’t think she knows herself.”

 

Sansa found a smile then, though it was a weak one. Shireen had never had any experiences with men, even the small flirtations with young knights that Sansa had enjoyed in her youth. The prospect of choosing a husband had left her alternatively excited and melancholy, wringing her hands with a nervous energy, and looking in the mirror at her deformed face more often than she had been wont to. 

 

“She’s a princess, and first born at that. Either one of those boys would be lucky to have her.”

 

“That they would.” Davos had slowed his steps almost to the point of stopping. He was looking over at Sansa with a serious expression. She waited for him to speak, though she thought she knew what he would say. “My queen- Sansa. The maids have been saying you haven't been eating much. You know you must- for the babe. The king will notice.”

 

“You haven't said anything?” Sansa felt vaguely surprised. There were few secrets between her husband and Lord Davos. Although one of the few, if not the only one, was her own.

 

“I haven't. But I will, if I must.”

 

Sansa nodded. She knew she had to eat. It was just that each bite went down thick and heavy, as though it were lead that she ate.

 

“You can talk to me, if you like. I won’t betray your confidence, you know that.”

 

“I know.” But the Red Keep had eyes and ears, and she did not care to inform them of her troubles. “Thank you.”

 

He glanced up the stairs, as though to see if anyone were there to listen, though with the curve of the stairwell, they could not tell. Sansa wished he were not holding her arm. It would be rude to pull away. “It’s been- what, seven years now? If the wound still festers, perhaps you need to talk of it. To someone, at least.”

 

Suddenly, she found herself drawing in a deep breath, with a sharp burst of pain under her ribs. It was just too- too much. To be alone with him, like this. When he knew.

 

He had drawn another breath, as though he would speak to her more, but she cut him off before he could. “Thank you, my Lord Hand. We wouldn’t want to be late- my husband wouldn’t like that.”

 

“No.” He allowed her to set the pace.

 

When they reached the courtyard, Shireen was the first to see them. She was resplendent in green silk, and Sansa was glad to see that her hair was pulled back into an elegant collection of braids. When she had first come to court, Shireen had mimicked Sansa’s northern styles, and had taken to pulling the length of her hair over her shoulder so that it might cover some of her cheek.

 

Gemma cried out when she saw Sansa, and would not be quieted until she was brought over by her wet-nurse, so that Sansa could stroke her cheek. Steffon took his place by her side, standing as straight and tall as a four year old could muster, the effect only slightly ruined by the thumb stuck in his mouth, and the hand he wrapped tightly in a fold of her skirt.

 

Sansa glanced towards her husband, and found that he was looking towards her. This was an older gown, stretched tight across breasts swollen with pregnancy. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he nodded at her without a smile gracing his lips. She knew he felt ashamed when he desired her in this state- in any of her pregnancies, prior or current, he had never touched her. She could not say whether she missed his attentions or not.

 

His tightening lips told her to reach down, and gently remove Steffon’s thumb from his mouth. He looked up at her with round, grey eyes, and Sansa smiled down at him. She did not attempt to remove his hand from her skirt. There was only so much you could expect.

  
  


\-------

  
  


“Will he marry Shireen, Mother?” Steffon was tucked into bed, looking small beneath the sheets. His little hands were balled under his chin. Sansa smiled, and stroked his hair. Fine, black hair.

 

“He may, love.”

 

“But what about Trystane?” 

 

Sansa stretched, pushing her hands flat against her back. Myra, now that was a girl with good strong hands. She had been one of Stannis’s gifts to her, when Steffon had been conceived, and one that had been greatly appreciated. Perhaps Sansa would call upon her tonight. “He may. That depends.”

 

“On what?” Sansa smiled again, pulling the sheets tighter across his chest. 

 

“On your father. It is his duty, to your sister and to the relm to find her the best match. He may wed her to Prince Trystane or Lord Robert. He may wed her to another man.”

 

“Oh.” Steffon looked confused, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. 

 

Sansa hastened to change the subject- he had become most distressed when she’d told him that Shireen marrying would likely mean she went away to live elsewhere. “I think your sister is asleep. Should I check?”

 

He nodded, that grin coming out, the one that never failed to make Sansa smile at her son in return. Despite the coal-black of his hair, and the firm square of his jaw, there was little of Stannis in the boy. Sansa walked softly over to the crib in the far corner of the nursery- Gemma, as Sansa had suspected, was indeed asleep, with her dark curls in a tumble around her face, and her rosebud off a mouth slack and open.

 

When Sansa returned to sit on the edge of Steffon’s bed, he squirmed around to face her more fully. When he spoke, he had lowered his voice to what he likely imagined was a whisper. It was more a slightly quieter version of his usual energetic talk, but Gemma was a sound sleeper. “Tell me the story! The secret one.”

 

Sansa sucked in a long breath, looking into the corner, where Gemma’s crib lay. But she did not really see it. “Mother’s tired tonight, sweetling. Perhaps another story.” Perhaps, when she retired to her own rooms, she would take the time to sketch. That helped sometimes.

 

“Please? It’s the best one.” He was looking at her, with pleading eyes.

 

Perhaps she did need to talk about it.

 

“Very well. But you remember what I told you?”

 

He nodded, and recited, solemn in his little boy’s voice. “Our secret story is just for us. No one else gets to hear it, not even Gemma or Shireen or Father.” 

 

Sansa nodded. Some of the old tension was leaking out of her shoulders, to be replaced with new. It was always hard to start. “There was a man once, one of the tallest and strongest that ever lived-”

 

“Except for his brother,” Steffon broke in, excitedly. At her sigh, he quieted and burrowed further under his sheets.

 

“-one of the tallest a strongest that ever lived. He was known as a loyal Hound, and the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He had a sword, taller than me, that he used to defend those he served. But he was not always in the service of good men. Since he was a young man, he had been in the service of golden Lions, Lions so beautiful that all who saw them could not help but to love them. But not all beautiful things are good.” She looked into his eyes as she said that- some elements of the story changed, but that part never did. It was a lesson she had learned in pain and blood and fear. 

 

“The Lions lived here, in the south, right where we do. There were many of them, young and old alike. The Lioness Queen was the most beautiful and the most terrible of them all, and she gave the leash of the Hound to her son- a spoiled little cub, with curled golden hair.

 

“They fed the Hound, and paid him with gold, but they treated him poorly. He gave them many years of faithful service, and they repaid him with insults and mockery. Do you remember why, love?”

 

Steffon nodded, the light from the candle reflected in his round eyes. “‘Cause of his face.”

 

“Yes. The Hound had terrible scars, all down one side of his face.” Steffon pushed himself back up against his pillows- he always liked to hear about this part. “Burns, terrible, terrible burns. It had happened when he was a child- no older than you. He had a brother. If this man was a loyal Hound, his brother was a rabid one, bigger and stronger than any other, who took delight in hurting people and bringing pain and suffering. When he was young, his brother had burned him, for no other reason than to watch his brother cry. It left him with a terrible, red eye on one side, terrible scars, and bone peeking through at his jaw.”

 

Sansa traced a finger down her own to show him where, and Steffon followed her finger avidly, though he had heard the story dozens of times.

 

“He had long, dark hair, much like yours.” Steffon squirmed in pleasure, as he always did. “A strong jaw, just like yours. And grey eyes, just the shade your's are.” She ran a finger through his hair, across his jaw and beneath his eyes.

 

“He was not beautiful as the Lions were, and his scars made him so ugly that all who saw him feared him. The world treated the Hound cruelly, and he repaid them in kind. He learned to use his sword as a butcher uses his knife, and nobody could stop him. He even learned to take joy in his killing, and to carve his way through the world with his sword.

 

“Then, one day, a pack of Wolves from the north came to court. They had come to help rule the Seven Kingdoms, and to marry one of their cubs to the Lion cub with the curls. But the Lions betrayed them, and one by one they were dead. All but one. The Wolf cub who was to be married to the Lion cub.”

 

“That was you, Mother.” Sansa did not reply, merely carrying on with the story. She kept her voice soft, so as not to wake Gemma, and so that Steffon would have to remain quiet to hear her words.

 

“The young She-Wolf was trapped in the Lion’s court. They dressed her in silk and jewels, and called her a lady- but their fine words were no more than that. Fine words. They treated the Wolf with cruelty- they beat her and lied to her, and forced her to lie to the world. To say that she was happy.” Sansa swallowed down the lump that had risen in her throat, and forged on. The fine silk gown she was wearing felt constrictive. The choker of pearls around her throat was easy enough to unclasp, and she did so, laying it down in her lap.

 

“But the loyal Hound helped her. Only he showed her what was real and what was not. It was only he who showed her the ways of the world. The She-Wolf was frightened of him, but she knew that he would not hurt her. It was he who had covered her with his own cloak, when she was beaten and stripped by the Lions. She would have died, but for him. Of sadness, or of their cruelty. If she had stayed for much longer.” She had thought of it often enough. Thought of dressing in her finest silks, and throwing herself from her tower window, for all to see her beautiful and broken on the cobblestones below. But her courage had always failed her.

 

“But there came a night that brought battle, and green fire in the sky and water. And the Hound remembered his brother’s cruelty, and for the only time in his life, his courage broke. He fled from the battle, and abandoned the Lions he had served. But before he left, he went to the She-Wolf. He told her that he would protect her, and that nobody would ever hurt her again.”

 

It had been a lie, of course, but he couldn’t have known that.

 

“He took her from her tower, and carried her away. They traveled together across the land, and he protected her from all those who would hurt her. They made for the sea, where they could find passage to seek refuge with the Stag, a proud powerful Stag.”

 

Sansa took a deep breath. The corners of her eyes had begun to sting. The next few words were spoken slowly and carefully. “One night, just like tonight- almost six years ago tonight, actually-” she laughed, a shaky thing, and continued,”They were sitting by the fire. He had lit it for her, even though he didn’t like it. He turned towards the She-Wolf, and he said-”

 

“That’s not right!” Steffon had sat bolt upright, letting the sheets fall into his lap. Beneath them, he was bare chested and sturdy. A light bruise showed on his left shoulder. Sansa pushed him down against the pillows despite his protests, tucking the sheets firmly under his chin. “Mother, that’s not part of the story, you never said before.”

 

“Well, if you’re good, you might get to hear a new part tonight.” Sansa sat up straight, watching him for a long moment. When the little boy ceased his fidgeting and lay still, blinking up at her, she continued.

 

“He turned to the She-Wolf, and he said that she would be married soon, when they reached the Stag. She was young and beautiful, and had claim to the Wolven territory in the north. Many men would vie for her hand. The Hound asked if she would like that. She said that she wouldn’t.” It was easy to remember, to draw up the smell of the wood smoke, so clearly that the fire might well be here. To remember the intensity of grey eyes in a scarred face, held so close to her own that she could feel the heat of his skin.

 

“She said- she said that she would want to marry a man she could trust. One who would keep her safe. A man she loved.”

 

Breathing was getting harder now. Sansa bowed her head slightly, willing herself to remain composed. “They said their vows beneath an oak tree, in the tradition of the Wolves in the north.” There had been no septons, no cloaks or even a feast. Only his hands, rough and so large around her own, and his eyes, seeming to look into her very soul. He had seemed vulnerable then, still impossibly large, but somehow open and breakable.

 

Sansa looked up, to see Steffon looking at her with his mouth open and grey eyes wide. She swallowed. She had told the rest before.

 

“But as they were saying their last vow, the men found them. You see, the Lions did not like their property escaping. They had sent the Rabid Dog after them; the Hound’s older brother. He was falling upon them with his men, too quickly for escape. The Hound took the She-Wolf in his arms, and he kissed her.” The memory of his lips hard over her own, the taste of his tongue in her mouth- sometimes she was afraid of the details fading with time. Of forgetting his face, the shape of his hands or the rough rasp of his voice. But the feel of his mouth on her own was as clear as it had ever been.

 

“He put her on his great black horse, and told her to run. She never wanted to leave, but he slapped the horse’s flank when she would not go, and it ran away with her atop it. The Hound turned, and faced the men rushing down upon him, and faced the brother who had burned him.” 

 

She had not seen, bouncing on the back of the horse, the sights and sounds of the enemy fading as Stranger had run, headlong, down the path towards the coast. But it was easy enough to picture, and she had been told some of the details.

 

“The Hound and the Rabid Dog killed one another. While the She-Wolf rode to safety.”

 

When she fell quiet, Steffon piped in again. “What happened next?”

 

He knew what happened next, but Sansa continued anyway. “The She-Wolf fled to the Stag, and married him, as his own wife had died. The Stag drove the Lions from their castle, and killed them as they fled. He made the She-Wolf his queen, and they lived together in a castle. And had children of their own.”

 

“But she was already married.” Steffon was trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, and Sansa took a long moment to watch him. He had been so beautiful, when he had come into the world, that Sansa could scarcely look at him without crying. Her husband loved the boy in his own proud way, as his heir and his son and the future king. But it was Sansa who had rocked him when he’d woken sobbing from a bad dream, and she who had smoothed his hair and told him of her family, who he could never meet. And who told him her stories.

 

“She was. But he had died. And- and even though she could not love again, she honored her king, and honored his wishes, including his wish to be married. And he gave her two beautiful children.” Sansa extinguished the candle on his bedside- she could see well enough in the dark, and the hallways were well lit.

 

“But that’s not the important part. People will write history books about the Stag, and people sing songs of his queen, the She-Wolf. No one remembers the loyal Hound.” Sansa pressed a hand to her son’s shoulder. “Nobody but us.”

 

“I’ll remember.”

 

“Good. That’s why I tell you our secret story, sweetling. The She-Wolf- he taught her- taught me how to be brave. And how to see the world for what it is, through all the lies we tell ourselves. He will teach you too, because I will tell you. But it’s time for sleep now.” Sansa leaned down to kiss him, and he curled his fingers into the high neckline of her gown.

 

“Will you tell me again tomorrow?”

 

“Yes, love.” Sansa pressed a kiss to his cool forehead. “I’ll tell you again tomorrow.”

  
  


\------

  
  


Alone in her own chambers, Sansa moved into her private solar. She had another solar, a larger one, for accepting audiences. In here, the maids knew enough not to bother her. When she was alone in this room, the queen was indisposed.

 

The little chest was beneath her desk, and she laboriously lowered herself to her knees to open it. The key was deep in the pocket of her dress- the seamstresses knew enough to provide such a pocket for her in all her clothes, hidden amongst the folds. She always took care to hold a small toy or sweet for the children, and a sachet of smelling salts in here along with the key.

 

Opening the chest, she drew out the three scrolls within. Rising to her feet with a small groan, she sank into her chair. The maids had let her hair down, and brushed it out, dressing her in a robe of light linen. It had seemed to take an age.

 

The first scroll was scarcely started, and she spread it out to look. There was only the barest indication of a figure, sitting high on a horse, with the silhouette of a sword over their shoulder. The next was slightly better, a portrait style, but she did not feel the urge to work on that one tonight. The third the nearly finished, of Sandor sitting on a log, as he had used to do when he had lit her a fire, far enough away that he would not have to suffer the sparks or the smoke or the fear. She frowned. They were all wrong.

 

Pulling out a fresh length of paper, Sansa reached for the charcoal sticks by the edge of her desk. They stained her fingers, but perhaps-

 

When she started, sketching out the first line, she knew. Sometimes, when she was drawing, the feeling would come to her that it would be good- better than good. Her fingers would seem to find paths all of their own, with scarcely any assistance from her, and a rushing, soaring sense would fill her, and she would fly.

 

She had never drawn this before.

 

Her fingers dragged over the surface of the paper, smudging the lines. She could remember, so clearly- the leaves beneath her back, instead of the fine linen sheets. The feel of his heavy body atop her own, and the rumble of his voice in her ear.

 

When at last she drew back, breathing hard, the last of the light had faded. With trembling fingers, Sansa lit another candle, to see all the better.

 

He was as she remembered him from that night. Intense, yet as open as he had been beneath the oak tree where he had held her hands and pledged his life to her own. Looking into her. He was bare-chested, as she had never seen him in life, but his body was sketched out with the barest suggestion of lines to outline the contours. She could not remember what his body had looked like- the feel of skin and the drag of scars beneath her fingers, but she had not looked, somehow. Only felt.

 

He had looked at her and he had said- he’d said-

 

He’d never said he’d loved her before then. She’d gone to sleep beside her new husband, aching between the legs and trying to suppress her tears, and he had been there. Waiting for her. He’d touched her, and the ache between her thighs had gone so sweet. For that night, he’d come back to her, in ways she never could have imagined. 

 

When she’d woken in the morning, Stannis had been gone. She'd been alone in the bed. When he’d ridden to war only a week later, she’d waved him off with proper ceremony, but had been relieved by his absence. When her moon blood had failed to make it’s arrival, she’d thought of her dream. Of how Sandor had come to her.

 

But that was years past now, and she was alone but for her children.

 

Pulling a candle near to her, she looked hard at the drawing. Then, she carefully allowed the corner to touch the flickering flame.

 

_ “You have to burn these.” Davos had looked at her with such seriousness in his eyes that she had almost laughed, though she’d half felt like crying. A wetness on her face told her that she was, in fact, crying, but she did not reach up to wipe away the tears. Davos had softened then, as he had not even as she’d related the whole tale. _

 

_ “I- I’m sorry. But if the maids find these, if they should talk-” _

 

_ She’d nodded. He did not have to tell her that the king would not have appreciated talk. She’d been more careful after that, after Davos had taken she and Shireen to the capitol. _

 

The paper was catching quickly, and she watched as the flame passed over his face, turning it to burnt, dark curls that fluttered to the floor. 

 

She could draw a new one in the morning.


	20. What Happened After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this a little incoherent. I'm very tired, but it's been too long since I wrote anything, and his has been living in my head, in one form or another, for weeks now.
> 
> Worth saying that in my fics, even when I go off of show storylines, I still picture book characters. I love Sophie Turner and Rory Mccann, but they are not who I have in mind when I write this stuff.

The thumping in his head should be loud enough to wake the gods from wherever they’d run off to, but despite the noise, it still took effort to pry his eyes open. The mud-colored floor was hard and cold under his cheek. The stables were one of the few structures left standing after the fighting had been done, and it had been where he had spent the last hours he could remember. With- someone. He thought someone had been here. With a few horns of ale, after his wineskin had run out.

 

Sitting up seemed to take real effort, and Sandor winced, passing a hand overtop of his head. There was mud caked in the back of it, all through his hair- at least, he hoped that it was mud. 

 

A slight movement in the the corner of his eye had him whipping around, and then cursing softly to himself for the movement. She sat there. Watching him, as though he were some singer or juggler, brought in to entertain the Lady of Winterfell.

 

He closed his eyes for a long moment, against the daylight seeping in through the windows or against her visage, he was not sure. But she was still there when he opened them. Still there, and still watching him.

 

“You’re drinking.” The goblet she’d been sipping from was silver, with a wolf's head engraved on the front of it, with onyx chips for the eyes. It had been the same one she’d had in her hand the night before, though he’d seen her cover it with her palm when the serving girl had approached with a beaker of wine. There were few enough men left in Winterfell that even a southern dog had a high seat. Not at the high table to be sure, but high enough. Whatever she had or had not drank the night before, her goblet was full now. The color was high in her cheeks, and her eyes had the glassy look of a woman in her cups. Despite all that, her voice was steady when she replied.

 

“Shouldn’t I be?”

 

“You weren't. The whole of the north was celebrating- what’s left of the north, anyway. All of them drinking and cheering your brother.” He leavered himself to his feet, and sat, a little unsteadily beside her, on the small wooden bench. There was an empty wineskin on the floor, with a stain beside it that said it had not been empty when it had flopped to the ground. A shame, that. The wineskin, and it’s smaller companion, were all that remained of whomever had joined the Hound in his cups. Whomever they were, he did not miss them. Drinking was best done alone.

 

Or not, if you had no more drink. He looked pointedly at the skin the girl had brought, sitting beside the little bird’s hip. She looked at him expressionlessly for a long moment, before she passed it to him. She took another sip, watching him as he took his first pull, grimacing at the taste. It was honey-sweet.

 

“Mead. The queen sent it. Found in the stores at high garden, I believe.”

 

It was not wine, but it was as strong as it was sweet. He took another pull.

 

She was still watching him, and he lowered the skin abruptly, passing the back of his hand over his mouth. “What? Out with it, girl. You’ve seen me wake, and you’ve fed me mead, so say whatever it is that you wish.”

 

He had thought she might protest at being spoken to thusly, she being Lady Stark, sitting here on a splintered wooden bench with a rough man speaking his rough words, drinking from her skin. But she did not. Merely looked some more.

 

He breathed out, sharply through his nose. She would speak when she was ready, or she would not. The third pull from the skin had the pounding in his head diminishing, and he settled back, allowing the back of him to rest against the wooden wall.

 

The skin was half gone, and his headache had disappeared entirely by the time she spoke. “You’re a loyal man.”

 

He did not look at her as he replied. “I was. Until I wasn’t.”

 

“Yes.” She leaned forward, and took the skin back from him. She had finished her goblet, and filled it once more, the golden liquid rising to the very top. She passed it back to him, sipping at her drink, though sipping steadily. He took it back, though he did not raise it to his lips again. Instead, Sandor watched her, for a long moment, as she sipped at her wine. The sun, thankfully passing across his shoulder rather than his eyes, illuminated one side of her face, setting eyelashes and hair and lips alike awash with a golden light. When she finally turned to meet his gaze, she shifted to the side, so that the light would not blind her. The golden light was gone, but she had still been the same beneath that.

 

“You’re not happy.” He had seen that the night before, seen through all of her smiles, and the laughter that had come when she had needed it to. She was not smiling now. Her mouth was slack, as though she could not muster the energy to call up either a smile or a frown.

 

“Why would I be?” She looked steadily at him, at his face. It had been almost disconcerting the first time she had done it, when she had been welcoming the returning northerners to Winterfell. But then, she had faced an army of the dead, and two husbands since they had last spoken. So perhaps it was to be expected.

 

When he did not answer she continued. “Of course I’m happy. I have all I could want, all any woman could ever ask for.” She brought the goblet to her lips, and the liquid within spilled over onto the front of her gown as she drank. When she lowered it, she brought out her small pink tongue to catch what droplets she could. She looked up at him, the round blueness of her eyes shining as though she would weep, though he saw no sign of tears. “Don’t I?”

 

“Aye. You fucking do.” Her hand had begun to tremble, so he took the cup away from her. When he offered the skin instead, she laughed, though no sign of humor showed on her face, and took it. “You’ve got a Stark for a king, isn’t that what all you northerners wanted? What you wanted? He might not be in the north, not anymore, but his name’s still Stark.”

 

“It isn’t though. Not really.” She had raised the skin as though she would drink, but was just looking at it. 

 

“He is now. It’s what the Dragon Queen named him, isn’t it? Fucking legitimized, like that Baratheon bastard. Legitimized and married, in the length of a week, and now a king. Seems he’s the only one luckier than you.” His tone had darkened. Those dragons had grown bigger by the day, he’d seen that much, and talk had drifted North of a clutch of eggs found in their enclosure, jewel-bright and hard as stone.

 

“Of course.” She finally brought the skin to her mouth, though she whetted her lips rather than taking a proper mouthful, and put it down by her feet afterwards. He eyed it. The pitiful amount in the goblet would only take him so far.

 

“So what is it, then? He’s your brother, like it or not, and he’s a bloody Stark now, a bloody  _ king _ , and the queen has named your children to be her heirs.”

 

She looked down at her feet. “Yes. He is. And she has, hasn’t she? And how many kings and queens have we seen of late?” She looked up at him, her face pale, seeming all the whiter against the dark gray of her gown. “What happened to them?” She glanced away, her face drawing tight, wrinkles forming on her brow. “Or even if all that happens is nothing, he- my son-” She did not finish, although the anguished look she shot him spoke clearer than any word she was like ever to think up.

 

“There isn’t one yet though, is there? Maybe there never will be.” The liquid in the goblet went down easily, and he raised it to look at the silver. Fine work. Though easily broken, as all fine things were. What would she say, if he closed his hand over her pretty goblet, closed it and squeezed?

 

“There will be. The queen will make sure of that, though she will use Jon’s mouth to give the order.” Her face had loosened, gone something close to expressionless again. He wondered how drunk she really was, to have sought out him, of all people, to listen while she spoke her mind.

 

“Have they told you who?” Maybe the Lannister cunt- she’d been wed to him once already, though not bedded, if the talk was to be believed.

 

She shrugged. “Some loyalist. Someone willing to give up their name, their line.” She looked up at him, and she had leaned forward now, elbows resting on her knees. “There will always be a Stark in Winterfell. And soon, I suppose, in the Capitol. A dynasty.” She smiled, and it looked almost real. “She’ll be the last Targaryen. At least there's that.”

 

He opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say. So be bent swiftly, snatching up the mead-skin, his shoulder brushing roughly against hers, and filled his mouth with the mead instead. It would be gone soon, if they kept on like this.

 

“I asked if you were a loyal man.” He looked over at her, and then down at the small hand she’d placed on his arm. “Not if you were loyal before, or if you had ever been once. If you are now.”

 

He shrugged, eyes flicking back up to her face. “I suppose so.” Why wouldn’t he be? There was nothing else left, now that the war had been done, and there was one less Clegane in the world. Loyalty to her was as good as any fate. Better than some.

 

“Would you do as I command, then?” She had reached into a fold of her gown, and produced a small scroll, with no seal or wear to speak of. It looked fresh and bright, as though it had been penned only moments before. “I wrote it this morning. And perhaps, I will send the raven tonight.”

 

Sansa was looking at him, eyes on his face. He took the small scroll from her hand, and when she reached for the skin, he let her. Even when she lifted it to her lips, her eyes stayed on him, as he unfurled the parchment and began to read.

 

She’d a pretty, clear hand, and it did not take long. He’d begun to laugh when he reached the second line, coarse, rasping laughter that hurt his dry throat, but he laughed nonetheless.

 

“Do you consent?” She was not laughing, her mouth a straight line, her small white hand clutching at the skin as though it would ground her. He supposed he knew the feeling.

 

“Why not? I said I would serve my lady, and if it pleases the lady to be served so, than I will do the fucking deed.” If the new king agreed to his sister’s request. He laughed some more upon realizing that he hoped that the man did, despite how his raucous laughter seemed to shrink the woman beside him. There was naught else left in the world, with no one to kill or to hate. It seemed that fucking and drinking where all that was left to him, and he would not refuse the bounty she offered him.

 

“Very well.” She made as if to rise to her feet, but nearly fell down again, catching Sandor’s shoulder to steady herself. She colored as she looked down at him. “Would you?”

 

“As the lady commands.” He rose to his feet. He had drunk more than she, but it would take even more to leave him in any state such as hers. He took her arm rather than offering his own, but paused before beginning the walk back to what remained of the keep. She looked up at him, pale but for the bright spots of color, high in her cheeks. She did not flinch when he took her chin in his hand, though her hand on his arm tightened for a brief moment. For a time, he simply looked down at her, at her eyes, fixed on his own. When she jerked her chin away, he let her. 

 

Her nostrils flared, and her chin rose, shoulders straightening. “You said you were a loyal man. Are you an obedient one?”

 

“As much as a dog can be.” He had not released her arm, but then she had not asked him to.

 

“Good.” She looked up at him, her eyes still somewhat glazed with drink. When they flicked away, he followed them- the stables were still empty, as empty as they had been on Sandor’s arrival. Their closest neighbor swished his tail, cocking his ears as though he were listening. But the stallion would tell no tales.

 

“I wish for you to kiss me.” He swung back around to look at her, feeling the first traces of unsteadiness. She looked back at him, the spots of color from her cheekbones spreading down the smooth curves of her face. One eyebrow rose when he did not move, though the color in her face was still deepening. “Is that something you can do?”

 

Mouth twisting, he turned to face her fully, grasping her free arm with his own. It would be nothing to pull her to him, to crush his face against her own, to taste her. Her breath was coming faster, her grip on his arms turning her knuckles white, although he scarcely felt it. He bent slowly to her, pausing with his face very close her her own. Perhaps it was another sort of cruelty, but she knew what she was asking for. Could see it, in every snarl of scar tissue distorting his face. But when his mouth met hers, her eyes were open.

 

It was so soft.  _ She  _ was so soft.

 

When he pulled back, he saw how wide her eyes had gone. He had released her arms in favor of her waist, and one of her hands had come up, to gently touch her own lip. She stared at him, and he let her, holding her because she had not yet told him to release her, and because the softness of her lips had promised at more, at her neck, and beneath the fine woolen gown she wore.

 

“I-” She swallowed, and her glance at the door told him to release her, and to take her arm once more.

 

“Did I please the lady?” He had meant it to come out harder than that.

 

“I’ll send the raven, tonight I think.” Her small mincing steps were bloody torture to keep to, but likely she could handle no more. The people of Winterfell looked away as they passed, or nodded at their lady, turning questioning eyes upon Sandor.

 

He laughed again, and she looked up at him. He just shook his head. “Only in name, is it?”

 

“What’s that?” She was squinting up at him as they took the stairway, back towards her chambers. This tower had suffered less than the others, and had been patched up as well as might be. The Dragon Queen’s craftsmen would be here within the fortnight, he’d heard, to do the thing properly.

 

“I never wanted to be a lord.”

 

“You are one, though.” When he only shrugged, she carried on. Many keeps and castles had been ravaged in the war, and if Clegane Keep was among them, it was all to the good. “Or you will be, if all goes well.”

 

He nodded. That was true enough. When they drew to a halt outside of her chambers, she turned to face him. He studied her face, framed by the copper tumble of her hair. “And if it doesn’t? Go well?”

 

Her mouth thinned. At her gesture, he pushed open the door, and tugged her to the chair in her solar, moving quickly enough that she was clutching at his arm with both hands. There was a small tray of food, and a cold mug of tea that looked to be barely touched. 

 

She fussed with her hair and gown, pressing a hand to her cheek as though she could wipe away the color in her cheeks, or the glaze in her eyes. “If need be, you are still my loyal man. Are you not?”

 

He nodded. She surveyed him. “And you will do as I say, I think.”

 

Only the slight stutter in her voice gave her away, and he stared at her hard for a moment. She looked back, the only nervousness about her demeanor the hands wrung tight in her lap. “You will, won’t you?”

 

“I will.” He didn’t have to think to say the words.

 

“Good.” She took up her mug of tea, keeping her eyes on him as she took her sip. 

 

When she glanced at the door, he knew it was time to leave her alone. Still, he hesitated. She looked up at him. She did not command him to leave. So he approached her desk, gipping the edge as he bent over it, bringing his face more of a level with hers.

 

“Why me? There are many northern men, who would be loyal to you until their last breath.”

 

She leaned forward, so that he could feel his breath on his cheek, and for a moment, he thought she meant to kiss him. But she only put a hand to his cheek, curving over his jaw. She did not flinch away from the feel of his scars, no more than she had flinched away from his kiss.

 

“I think a woman like me has need of a man like you. And- my son.” She did not blink. “My son may have need of such a man as well.”

 

She leaned forward then, rising a bit unsteadily out of her chair, and her lips were back on his own. It was as chaste as the first had been, but still bringing enough sweetness to drown a man. When she sat back, flushed, into her chair with a thump, he straightened slowly. “I think-” Her eyes were bright, the sparkle in them almost burning away the haze of her drinking. “I think I would like to see you. Before the raven returns. A husband should know his wife. And the wife should know the husband.”

 

She looked up at him, lip caught between her teeth. “You should sleep. You may need your strength.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't dwell on it, but the inspiration for this fic was what, in my opinion, Daenarys should have done the second that Jon told her who he was. If she legitimized him and named him Stark, he wouldn't be able to contradict her without causing havoc. Anyone trying to name him a Targaryen would look less honest, so long as she acted first. He's already lord of Winterfell and warden of the north, so all it changes is the perception. The northmen would like it, because Jon is already a Stark to them.
> 
> Might come back and edit this later. I wrote it in such a passive voice that it might bother me when I read it again.


	21. Three Hours Until Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been watching gaming playthroughs recently, while I work. And needed to get myself writing again. Sooo.... here we are.
> 
> For the uninitiated, I stole the premise from a very popular game entitled Until Dawn. Essentially, a bunch of kids stranded in a cabin in the woods in the middle of winter, being hunted by a terrible monster. Those who survive until dawn will live. All you need to know really, and you could probably read this without even knowing that. Teeny tiny fic, but it was fun!

“I can’t believe he’s dead.”

 

She had been saying that, on and off, for the last few hours. Sansa’s weight was warm in his arms, her chin resting on his shoulder. Her breasts a soft pressure against his side. But he shouldn’t be thinking like that, not now.

 

“I know.” He’d been saying that too, for as long as she had been numbly repeating the phrase. But what else was there to say? Joffrey was dead. Killed, right in front of him. Right in front of  _ them _ . They’d been running, and that  _ thing _ , that- that monster had taken him. Slowly once it had caught him, as though it had known he and Sansa were watching, known it and liked it.

 

“There was so much blood.”

 

That one was new. Sandor glanced down at her, to see her peering back up at him in turn. Her mouth was softly slack, her tone almost matter of fact. Shock. That’s what fancy fuckers in white coats would call it. If they made it long enough to see them. If they survived the night.

 

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. Her unblinking gaze on him seemed to be asking for more. “Yeah, there was a lot.” It had stained the white of the snow like spilled wine on crisp white sheets- a gruesome parody of what this weekend should have been. “ _ Come up to the cabin,” Joff had said. “Boros and Meryn are coming, and whoever else we can round up. Girls too,” he had said with a grin. A derisive one. He’d always liked to mock Sandor that way. Joff knew how women looked at him.  _

 

The boards above them creaked, and Sansa twitched in his arms. Fuck. Sandor tightened them around her, though that would do fuck-all if the  _ thing _ had found them. Long moments ticked by, and despite the frigid air around them, he felt cold drops of sweat running down the back of his neck.

 

No other sound came but the quiet pants of their own breathing. Sansa stirred, and when she spoke, Sandor jolted, half torn between the desire to slap a hand over her mouth and the need to keep as still and quiet as possible. “Sandor, I think- no, if it’s here, there’s nothing we can do, I need to- please.” Her eyes were shining, finally with unshed tears as she gripped his hovering hand. “Please. I need to say this. Please let me say this.” She took a long shuddering breath, and her free hand, which had been tucked somewhere against his side, came up unexpectedly to cup his one unmarred cheek. His mouth had opened, and he closed it again. Even in the gloom down here, her eyes were so blue.

 

“I love you.” She licked her lips, and smiled tremulously, watching him, searching his face.

 

He shook his head. ”No.” 

 

Her other hand rose too, pressing to his chest, and though there were layers of fabric between them, the wave of sensation her touch unleashed, she may as well have caressed his bare flesh.

 

“I love you, I do.” Her smile had not grown nor shrunk, though the glistening pools of her eyes had begun to drip down her cheeks like a soft rain.

 

He shook his head again, pulling one arm from around her side to press against her hand. He wanted to push it away from him. He wanted to keep it there. “You said you loved _ him _ .”

 

“You know- you were there.” Her hard breathing had slowed, little sniffles interjecting her words. “I didn’t, not like I used to. Not like I thought I had. I love you. I do.”

 

“Sansa-”

 

“I  _ do.” _

 

“You can’t- don’t-” But whatever she should or shouldn’t, her lips were pressing to his cheek his chin, and her eyes never closed, always fixed upon his face. She pulled back, more tears rolling down her cheeks as she pressed her mouth to the knuckles of his hand.

 

“I had to, oh, I had to. If we die- I wanted you to know-”

 

“Fuck.” Sandor’s hands were suddenly in the long tangle of her hair, one thumb dragging down over a cheekbone. “I won’t let you die, I won’t. I swear, I swear.” It wasn’t a promise he could make, not with a monster straight from a child’s nightmare stalking them, and help hours and hours away.

 

“I know we might, and if we do-”

 

But he pulled her close, and then his lips were on hers. 

 

Petal soft. Cold. He pressed closer, and could feel the fluttering of her eyelashes on his skin. Breaking away, he pressed his mouth to the pale skin of her neck, feeling the pulse racing wildly underneath. “I won’t. I- I won’t.” He opened his mouth, and tasted the salt of her sweat. She shuddered, hands pressed flat against his shoulders.

 

The boards creaked above them.


End file.
